Flash Fiction

Lucy's Fur
by Timothy Whitfield

Nicky Adams knew the story well enough. He was only in high school when it happened, but it was something he knew he’d never forget.

The year was 1990 and Lucy’s Fur was his all-time favorite metal band. He had all their CDs. He taped their Headbanger’s Ball videos and watched them incessantly. He wore their t-shirts at least five days out of the week. He saw them live on three different occasions, opening for AC/DC, Judas Priest, and then the ultimate gig with Slayer. They were going to be “the next big thing” in heavy music.

But then, on Halloween night, 1990, in some tiny backwater burg in the middle of Iowa, the music abruptly stopped.

Lucy’s Fur committed suicide. On stage. In front of five thousand moshing, screaming, diehard fans.

As one, the four members of Lucy’s Fur, during their third and final encore after a thunderous rendition of their latest hit, To Hell And Back, drew swords and began chopping each other to bits.

At least that was the report the following morning on MTV News.

Nicky felt sick to his stomach. He stayed home from school for a week. He refused to wear the t-shirts, to watch the videos, to even play their music. He brooded in singular silence. He felt lost, without purpose.

Worse, he felt betrayed.

A few days later, the venue in Iowa in which they played their “requiem concert” burned to the ground. Arson was suspected but no arrests were made.

As the weeks went by, conflicting reports began to surface in the various metal mags. Hoax! declared some headlines. Publicity Stunt! spouted others. Lucy’s Fur Spotted At Daytona Beach Soaking Up The Sun!

Nicky didn’t know who or what to believe.

Years went by and the rumors slowly faded. Lucy’s Fur was eventually forgotten. Maybe they were dead and gone after all.

Nicky’s musical tastes evolved over the ensuing years. Opeth, Sentenced, and Katatonia were the new lords of dark music, exporting their flair for the macabre from Sweden and Norway and points beyond. American metal was dead. In Nicky’s heart, it had died that cold, dark Halloween night back in ’90, impaled forever on melodious swords.

Fifteen long, silent years ago.

So when the news broke that Lucy’s Fur were reuniting and releasing a brand new CD, Nicky’s head nearly exploded.

He didn’t know whether to cry or rejoice. On one hand, he felt duped, cheated, lied to. But on the other hand, he was tremendously excited. His all-time favorite band had risen from the grave so to speak. And he waited with bated breath for the new album.

Of all days, it was released on Halloween, 2005, exactly fifteen years to the day of that fateful, heartrending night in pisstown Iowa. Nicky was at the record store before it even opened. He wanted to be the first to buy the new recording. And he was. He even dug out and wore one of his old Lucy’s Fur tees. It didn’t fit him anymore and his beer gut was left exposed to the chilled autumn air, but he didn’t care. He had the new Lucy’s Fur in his grubby little paws.

He raced home, nearly crashing his car a few times. He was nearly trembling with excitement by the time he reached his tiny apartment. He even called off from work so this day could be dedicated solely to Lucy’s Fur. Nearly all the feelings of betrayal were gone by the time he walked into his apartment and set the unopened CD atop his stereo.

Only nervousness clawed at his fragile psyche now.

What if the CD sucked? What if it wasn’t the Lucy’s Fur he once knew and loved? Even worse, what if it was a bunch of poseurs, assembled by the record company bastards to make a quick buck on unsuspecting fans?

Nervousness festered into anger. He suddenly wanted to throw the CD away and not even listen to it. Forget about them. Do they deserve his forgiveness after all these years?

“Screw you guys,” he said aloud to the sealed CD package. “I’ve moved on, so should you. Go back to hell where you belong.”

Nicky picked up the CD. In his haste, he realized he never even read the album’s title yet. Squinting at the odd, gothic lettering, he read, Back From The Grave. The cover was a drawing of a creepy cemetery with four open graves.

Nicky slammed the CD down and swore under his breath. Was this some sort of joke? A ruse for the record company to fleece Lucy’s Fur’s fans?

Or had the band really returned from the proverbial grave?

Nicky went to the kitchen and got himself a beer. He normally didn’t drink this early in the day, but this was a special occasion if there ever was one.

Downing half the beer as he walked, Nicky returned to the living room. Without giving himself any more time for doubt or second-guessing, he picked up the CD and quickly tore off the cellophane wrapping. He opening the case and popped out the disc. It felt light and cool in his hand. The label was a dark crimson with black lettering Flicking several switched, he powered up his stereo. The drawer to his CD player slid open and Nicky placed the CD in the tray and closed it. The disc would start playing automatically. A knot formed inside his gut. The music started off slow, a bass rumbling. Soon, tribal drums joined the bass and then an ungodly heavy riff from an electric guitar. Nicky cranked up the volume until he could feel the thumping of the bass, not just hear it. The distorted guitars were so loud; he nearly didn’t hear the knocking at his door. He lowered the volume just slightly and went to the door.

The girl standing in the hall had a silver spike through her lower lip. That was the first thing Nicky noticed. He then noticed she had several piercings: her right nostril, her eyebrow, each ear sported several loops and chains. Above the waistband of her low riding jeans, he navel flaunted some sort of studded gargoyle pin. She wore a girly pink tank top, her arms bare. One shoulder was covered by a tattoo of a tiger’s growling head with ruby eyes. She had long, black-dyed hair. It was hard to fathom her age with all the added trappings, but Nicky figured her to be about twenty-five or so. Definitely not jail bait.

“Ooooo,” she cooed, smiling, her lips too red, too moist. “Is that the new Lucy’s Fur? I loooooove them.”

“Yes,” Nicky said, too dumbfounded to think of anything else. Who was this girl? Did she live in the building? He never saw her before and he’d been living her for ten years.

“Ooooo,” she said again. “Can I listen to it? How is it? Is it any good?”

“I don’t know,” Nicky said. “I just bought it. It just came out today.”

“Neat.” The girl brushed past him, nearly knocking Nicky down, chains dangling from the seat of her pants, jingling as she went. Nicky eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance. She had a nice ass.

“Want a beer?”

The girl twirled, her face a beaming, pale mask. Her dark eyes bore holes right through him. “That’d be super, Nicky.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I live right down the hall, silly.”

“You do? I don’t recall seeing you around before.”

She shrugged, obviously bored with this line of conversation. Nicky went to the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the fridge. He handed one to the girl, and popped the other open for himself.

“What’s your name?” Nicky asked.

“Lucy.”

“Well, that’s an odd coincidence.”

The girl looked at him, a blank expression plastered on her face.

“Because we’re listening to Lucy’s Fur.”

The girl’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh, yeah! Right! I didn’t think of that.”

Nice ass but a little slow. To Nicky that meant a possible easy lay.

He turned up the volume on the stereo. The vocals were growling now, piercing and dark. If these guys were poseurs, they were doing a hell of a job imitating the real thing. They sounded awesome.

The girl, Lucy, sipped at her beer and swayed slightly to the music, her eyes partly closed. Maybe she was on drugs. That would explain a lot.

“Want to sit down?” Nicky asked.

“No, I’m fine. Great stuff, eh?”

Nicky could only assume she meant the music and not the beer.

“Sounds great.”

Lucy swayed some more. Then she asked, “Mind if I take my top off?”

Nicky nearly choked on his beer. “Um. Whatever you want.”

“It’s hot in here.” Lucy sat her beer down and quickly pulled her tank top over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were small and perky. Nicky could see a tiny trail of sweat between them. He looked away.

“I think I’ll sit down,” Nicky said. He walked over to the sofa and sat at one end. Lucy had her back to him. Her long black hair brushed over her pale skin as she swayed to the music. Her low-slung jeans accentuated her hips, her ass round and tight. Nicky drained the last of his beer, the music barely audible to him now. Something else was getting him excited at the moment, drowning everything else out.
Lucy turned and faced him. “This music is getting me hot,” she announced.

“Me too.” Nicky couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“This is really sweet of you, you know, letting me come in here and all.”

Nicky grinned, no doubt looking like a fool. “No problem.”

Lucy stepped closer to him, her breasts bobbing. “I can repay you.”

“Not necessary.”

Lucy slowly dropped to her knees as if preparing to pray. “I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

Nicky’s mouth went dry as the girl scooted forward until she was firmly planted between his knees. She then reached out and began to undo his belt.

As if in a trance, Nicky helped her unbuckle his jeans. Within seconds, he had his pants and underwear rolled down to mid-thigh.

“Ooooo,” Lucy cooed. She reached out and jostled with his member, which easily grew rigid within her grasp.

Closing his eyes, Nicky fell into a near swoon. He could feel her moist lips on him, her soft fingers expertly bringing him to full attention. Within his own pounding bloodbeat, he drifted––

“Feel my fur,” a woman’s sultry voice said. No, that’s not quite right.

“Feel my fury.” That’s it. Fury. And pain. Lots of pain.

Nicky’s eyes snapped open. Looking down, he could see the swollen head of his penis jutting out from the girl’s torrid grasp. It throbbed, painfully so, purple at first and then turning a dark crimson. Finally it exploded, literally, showering Lucy’s hair, her grinning face, her pale throat, with dark, boiling blood, like dark red lava.

Nicky raised his hands as if in supplication or to ward off an attack. It was then he noticed the kitchen knife gripped in his own tight fist. The blade was red and dripping with thick blood. Realization rushed in. He had somehow punctured his own dick.

The music from the stereo grew louder. Lucy stood, straddling his outstretched legs. She was covered in blood. She was smiling, licking at her lips, too red, too moist.

“Ooooo,” she cooed, swaying slightly, blood dripping from her naked torso. “I loooove this song.”

Nicky recognized it as well. It was Lucy’s Fur’s biggest hit. To Hell And Back. It was the song they committed suicide to so many years ago. Why would it be on their new album? Of course. A bonus track. A remix. Artists do it all the time. They remix old songs, give them a new feel, a new angle, a more modern beat. This one was cleverly turned inside out. Instead of the band chopping themselves to bits during it, now it was geared toward the fans. How thoughtful of them.

Somehow, Nicky found the strength to stand. The bombastic beat of the music was eating away at him, consuming him, controlling him. Using the blade of the knife, he sliced open his swollen beer belly, just below his navel, just above his ruptured penis. The wound quickly gaped open, spilling his guts onto the floor, his intestines uncoiling and writhing at Lucy’s feet like a frenzy of albino snakes covered in blood and slime and mucus.

Then the darkness came and the last thing Nicky Adams heard on this earth was a girl named Lucy saying, “Ooooo, Nicky, Lucy’s Fur rocks!”

August/September 2005

Lucy's Fur by Timothy Whitfield Nicky Adams knew the story well enough. He was only in high school when it happened, but it was something he knew he’d never forget. The year was 1990 and Lucy’s Fur was his all-time favorite metal band. He had all their CDs. He taped their Headbanger’s Ball videos and watched them incessantly. He wore their t-shirts at least five days out of the week. He saw them live on three different occasions, opening for AC/DC, Judas Priest, and then the ultimate gig with Slayer. They were going to be “the next big thing” in heavy music. But then, on Halloween night, 1990, in some tiny backwater burg in the middle of Iowa, the music abruptly stopped. Lucy’s Fur committed suicide. On stage. In front of five thousand moshing, screaming, diehard fans. As one, the four members of Lucy’s Fur, during their third and final encore after a thunderous rendition of their latest hit, To Hell And Back, drew swords and began chopping each other to bits. At least that was the report the following morning on MTV News. Nicky felt sick to his stomach. He stayed home from school for a week. He refused to wear the t-shirts, to watch the videos, to even play their music. He brooded in singular silence. He felt lost, without purpose. Worse, he felt betrayed. A few days later, the venue in Iowa in which they played their “requiem concert” burned to the ground. Arson was suspected but no arrests were made. As the weeks went by, conflicting reports began to surface in the various metal mags. Hoax! declared some headlines. Publicity Stunt! spouted others. Lucy’s Fur Spotted At Daytona Beach Soaking Up The Sun! Nicky didn’t know who or what to believe. Years went by and the rumors slowly faded. Lucy’s Fur was eventually forgotten. Maybe they were dead and gone after all. Nicky’s musical tastes evolved over the ensuing years. Opeth, Sentenced, and Katatonia were the new lords of dark music, exporting their flair for the macabre from Sweden and Norway and points beyond. American metal was dead. In Nicky’s heart, it had died that cold, dark Halloween night back in ’90, impaled forever on melodious swords. Fifteen long, silent years ago. So when the news broke that Lucy’s Fur were reuniting and releasing a brand new CD, Nicky’s head nearly exploded. He didn’t know whether to cry or rejoice. On one hand, he felt duped, cheated, lied to. But on the other hand, he was tremendously excited. His all-time favorite band had risen from the grave so to speak. And he waited with bated breath for the new album. Of all days, it was released on Halloween, 2005, exactly fifteen years to the day of that fateful, heartrending night in pisstown Iowa. Nicky was at the record store before it even opened. He wanted to be the first to buy the new recording. And he was. He even dug out and wore one of his old Lucy’s Fur tees. It didn’t fit him anymore and his beer gut was left exposed to the chilled autumn air, but he didn’t care. He had the new Lucy’s Fur in his grubby little paws. He raced home, nearly crashing his car a few times. He was nearly trembling with excitement by the time he reached his tiny apartment. He even called off from work so this day could be dedicated solely to Lucy’s Fur. Nearly all the feelings of betrayal were gone by the time he walked into his apartment and set the unopened CD atop his stereo. Only nervousness clawed at his fragile psyche now. What if the CD sucked? What if it wasn’t the Lucy’s Fur he once knew and loved? Even worse, what if it was a bunch of poseurs, assembled by the record company bastards to make a quick buck on unsuspecting fans? Nervousness festered into anger. He suddenly wanted to throw the CD away and not even listen to it. Forget about them. Do they deserve his forgiveness after all these years? “Screw you guys,” he said aloud to the sealed CD package. “I’ve moved on, so should you. Go back to hell where you belong.” Nicky picked up the CD. In his haste, he realized he never even read the album’s title yet. Squinting at the odd, gothic lettering, he read, Back From The Grave. The cover was a drawing of a creepy cemetery with four open graves. Nicky slammed the CD down and swore under his breath. Was this some sort of joke? A ruse for the record company to fleece Lucy’s Fur’s fans? Or had the band really returned from the proverbial grave? Nicky went to the kitchen and got himself a beer. He normally didn’t drink this early in the day, but this was a special occasion if there ever was one. Downing half the beer as he walked, Nicky returned to the living room. Without giving himself any more time for doubt or second-guessing, he picked up the CD and quickly tore off the cellophane wrapping. He opening the case and popped out the disc. It felt light and cool in his hand. The label was a dark crimson with black lettering Flicking several switched, he powered up his stereo. The drawer to his CD player slid open and Nicky placed the CD in the tray and closed it. The disc would start playing automatically. A knot formed inside his gut. The music started off slow, a bass rumbling. Soon, tribal drums joined the bass and then an ungodly heavy riff from an electric guitar. Nicky cranked up the volume until he could feel the thumping of the bass, not just hear it. The distorted guitars were so loud; he nearly didn’t hear the knocking at his door. He lowered the volume just slightly and went to the door. The girl standing in the hall had a silver spike through her lower lip. That was the first thing Nicky noticed. He then noticed she had several piercings: her right nostril, her eyebrow, each ear sported several loops and chains. Above the waistband of her low riding jeans, he navel flaunted some sort of studded gargoyle pin. She wore a girly pink tank top, her arms bare. One shoulder was covered by a tattoo of a tiger’s growling head with ruby eyes. She had long, black-dyed hair. It was hard to fathom her age with all the added trappings, but Nicky figured her to be about twenty-five or so. Definitely not jail bait. “Ooooo,” she cooed, smiling, her lips too red, too moist. “Is that the new Lucy’s Fur? I loooooove them.” “Yes,” Nicky said, too dumbfounded to think of anything else. Who was this girl? Did she live in the building? He never saw her before and he’d been living her for ten years. “Ooooo,” she said again. “Can I listen to it? How is it? Is it any good?” “I don’t know,” Nicky said. “I just bought it. It just came out today.” “Neat.” The girl brushed past him, nearly knocking Nicky down, chains dangling from the seat of her pants, jingling as she went. Nicky eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance. She had a nice ass. “Want a beer?” The girl twirled, her face a beaming, pale mask. Her dark eyes bore holes right through him. “That’d be super, Nicky.” “How do you know my name?” “I live right down the hall, silly.” “You do? I don’t recall seeing you around before.” She shrugged, obviously bored with this line of conversation. Nicky went to the kitchen and grabbed two beers from the fridge. He handed one to the girl, and popped the other open for himself. “What’s your name?” Nicky asked. “Lucy.” “Well, that’s an odd coincidence.” The girl looked at him, a blank expression plastered on her face. “Because we’re listening to Lucy’s Fur.” The girl’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh, yeah! Right! I didn’t think of that.” Nice ass but a little slow. To Nicky that meant a possible easy lay. He turned up the volume on the stereo. The vocals were growling now, piercing and dark. If these guys were poseurs, they were doing a hell of a job imitating the real thing. They sounded awesome. The girl, Lucy, sipped at her beer and swayed slightly to the music, her eyes partly closed. Maybe she was on drugs. That would explain a lot. “Want to sit down?” Nicky asked. “No, I’m fine. Great stuff, eh?” Nicky could only assume she meant the music and not the beer. “Sounds great.” Lucy swayed some more. Then she asked, “Mind if I take my top off?” Nicky nearly choked on his beer. “Um. Whatever you want.” “It’s hot in here.” Lucy sat her beer down and quickly pulled her tank top over her head. She wore no bra. Her breasts were small and perky. Nicky could see a tiny trail of sweat between them. He looked away. “I think I’ll sit down,” Nicky said. He walked over to the sofa and sat at one end. Lucy had her back to him. Her long black hair brushed over her pale skin as she swayed to the music. Her low-slung jeans accentuated her hips, her ass round and tight. Nicky drained the last of his beer, the music barely audible to him now. Something else was getting him excited at the moment, drowning everything else out. Lucy turned and faced him. “This music is getting me hot,” she announced. “Me too.” Nicky couldn’t think of anything else to say. “This is really sweet of you, you know, letting me come in here and all.” Nicky grinned, no doubt looking like a fool. “No problem.” Lucy stepped closer to him, her breasts bobbing. “I can repay you.” “Not necessary.” Lucy slowly dropped to her knees as if preparing to pray. “I insist. It’s the least I can do.” Nicky’s mouth went dry as the girl scooted forward until she was firmly planted between his knees. She then reached out and began to undo his belt. As if in a trance, Nicky helped her unbuckle his jeans. Within seconds, he had his pants and underwear rolled down to mid-thigh. “Ooooo,” Lucy cooed. She reached out and jostled with his member, which easily grew rigid within her grasp. Closing his eyes, Nicky fell into a near swoon. He could feel her moist lips on him, her soft fingers expertly bringing him to full attention. Within his own pounding bloodbeat, he drifted–– “Feel my fur,” a woman’s sultry voice said. No, that’s not quite right. “Feel my fury.” That’s it. Fury. And pain. Lots of pain. Nicky’s eyes snapped open. Looking down, he could see the swollen head of his penis jutting out from the girl’s torrid grasp. It throbbed, painfully so, purple at first and then turning a dark crimson. Finally it exploded, literally, showering Lucy’s hair, her grinning face, her pale throat, with dark, boiling blood, like dark red lava. Nicky raised his hands as if in supplication or to ward off an attack. It was then he noticed the kitchen knife gripped in his own tight fist. The blade was red and dripping with thick blood. Realization rushed in. He had somehow punctured his own dick. The music from the stereo grew louder. Lucy stood, straddling his outstretched legs. She was covered in blood. She was smiling, licking at her lips, too red, too moist. “Ooooo,” she cooed, swaying slightly, blood dripping from her naked torso. “I loooove this song.” Nicky recognized it as well. It was Lucy’s Fur’s biggest hit. To Hell And Back. It was the song they committed suicide to so many years ago. Why would it be on their new album? Of course. A bonus track. A remix. Artists do it all the time. They remix old songs, give them a new feel, a new angle, a more modern beat. This one was cleverly turned inside out. Instead of the band chopping themselves to bits during it, now it was geared toward the fans. How thoughtful of them. Somehow, Nicky found the strength to stand. The bombastic beat of the music was eating away at him, consuming him, controlling him. Using the blade of the knife, he sliced open his swollen beer belly, just below his navel, just above his ruptured penis. The wound quickly gaped open, spilling his guts onto the floor, his intestines uncoiling and writhing at Lucy’s feet like a frenzy of albino snakes covered in blood and slime and mucus. Then the darkness came and the last thing Nicky Adams heard on this earth was a girl named Lucy saying, “Ooooo, Nicky, Lucy’s Fur rocks!”