Comb of the Grotesque

“And this…” Mr. VanHauseman said as he gestured calculatedly toward the item that sat on a lighted pillar. All his movements were deliberate because of the tight, double breasted suit he was wearing. It was an antique, and it looked that any movement on his part would break the shoulders at the seams. “This is a comb.”

The group of teenagers that had straggled in from the rain, all glanced sideways at each other as if looking for reassurance that this man was a loser. Mr. VanHausemen stared intently at each of them as he gave the weight of his words time to settle in. Then he continued, “Is a comb.”
“I know, but- so what?” One of the girls piped in. The others laughed, relieved that someone had pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll tell you ‘so what’.” Mr. VanHauseman replied Cooley. “This comb was used by the great Sullivan McCormith in 1849 during one of his coal mining excavations!” He ended with a flourish.
No one moved, all their little eyes wide as they stared at him in disbelief.
“His luck in finding lucrative coal mines was impeccable…” He added, reducing his tone. “And when he died, he willed all his good fortune into this comb, with the intent of having it passed on to his estranged son so he could continue the family business. But it was intercepted by his business partner and was never returned to it’s rightful owner.”



At this point, Mr. VanHausemen again gestured to the ebony comb which sat lightly on the plaster surface. It looked as old as described. It’s surface covered in thin cracks, with dirt in it’s corners and wear on it’s teeth. One of the kids leaned in for a closer look while asking, “So, whoever has this will get money?”
“So Mr. McCormith’s business partner thought! Until, on an excursion to the dark continent in search of new mines, he suffered a spoliation at the hands of a rhinoceros.”
“Spoliation?” One asked.
“Defloration.” VanHausemen added for clarity. There was moment of silence before he burst out, “Rape!” He did little to hide his disgust. There was a collective gasp from the teenagers.
“He continued on, undaunted in this setback. And made it to a mine that was rumored to hold vast veins of gold. But he didn’t survive the rain of unrelenting pellets of coal!”
“Huh?” One of the girls mumbled, as she continued to snap gum.
“He died you strumpet!”
“From small pellets of coal?”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Seriously?” One of the boys asked.
“Yes.”
“How big were the coal pellets?” Another asked.
“That’s not important. The point of the story is, that there have been a select few who were able to wield the comb successfully, and had become rich beyond their wildest dreams! But the others suffered a gruesome death.”
“Tits.” One of the other boys quipped. The rest laughed.
“I’m going to leave the room now, I’ll be back in about an hour. So I’ll leave you to wander the museum of your own accord.” He said with a slight grin.

The kids walked around the dark room, peering into glass cases and joking at the contents. There was a pocket watch with a small card beneath it which read, “Used in the murder of Molly Stanford in 1893.” And a fountain pen which was implicated in the abduction of Daniel Rosen. But all focus went back to the unguarded comb. There were a few nervous jokes about how intelligent it was for Mr. VanHausmen to leave the group alone with this important object. They all circled it and dared each other to touch it. After a few were bold enough to prod it gingerly, the jokes about stealing it changed in tone. Soon it was a matter of who was actually going to take it. One, the meekest of the group stepped forward and said quietly that he would.

As they rushed themselves out the door, one of the girls felt something small hit her in the back of the neck. The others inspected her and found a small, red welt swelling near the collar of her raincoat. A few blocks away, a boy nearest the one who took the comb, felt a sharp sting on his temple. Again, a welt was found and they all looked around the empty streets. It was drizzly, Sunday afternoon, so no one was out on this small main street. Unnerved, they quickened their pace back to one of their homes. All the way each were pelted by something, and yelped in fear. They all came to the conclusion that it was the curse of the small coal pellets until the theif was hit inside his mouth. He doubled over, clutching at his mouth. One of the girls squealed, asking what was wrong. They all gathered around him expecting him to die a twitching death before their eyes, until the boy stood up. He put his index finger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a small, metal ball. They all leaned in and looked. One finally announced that it was a bee bee pellet. Confused and angry, they all pivoted around to see where it came from. Since they had left the empty gaze of the main street windows for the neighborhood, they could easily see where the source was.

Squatting behind a tree, frantically pumping a air rifle, was Mr. VanHauseman. Cold wisps of air trailed from his lips from behind the tree, giving his position away to the gum snapping girl.

They beat the shit out of him. It was the horror of one of the girls producing a primal scream as she rushed him, that sent him running. But it was the repeated blows to his head that finally had him crumpled up in a ball on the wet grass. And as they repeatedly kicked him in his head and ribs, they thought they could hear him say, “I was just trying to put some wonder back in your life.”