The bombs had finally stopped falling. The blistering fire and staggering force transforming innocent victims into smoldering husks–buildings into shattered tombs. Now the treads of the German Panzers were all that could be heard, grinding fragments of brick and mortar into dust as they inexorably marched through the streets of the dead. From the gullet of each tank Nazi soldiers emerged, like murderous jack-in-the-boxes, to survey what their masters had wrought. Their vulpine eyes on the prowl for easy prey, surveying every shadow and carefully scrutinizing each pile of rubble. After a time that seemed endless the procession of tanks moved on. The smoke and the ash settled in their wake, and as the sun descended, deepening the pool of shadows along the moonlit streets, a lone figure emerged.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and chiseled features. Though his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and weary, they burned with fierce determination. His body was as taut as a finely tuned piano string as he stepped cautiously among the wreckage of his homeland. The fearsome rumbling of the tanks had grown distant, but the man waited patiently at the edge of the fractured sidewalk for the sound to dissipate entirely before he stepped into the street. He lifted a single hand and rapidly motioned with two of his fingers, seeming to pantomime a hare bounding through a wooded glade. He glanced over his shoulder as the first of the survivors slipped from the safety of the shadows, limping and dragging their feet as they started to follow. Though he was a soldier trained in the art of survival and stealth, they were schoolteachers and factory workers–accountants and librarians and men and women and children that had little to do with a war that cared nothing for any of them. He was the crafty fox, tasked with protecting these frightened rabbits. And unfortunately for all of them, there were ravenous wolves on the prowl.

The soldier slipped across the street, skirting the treacherous debris with practiced ease. His charges followed carefully, picking their way with uneasy steps in the growing gloom. As the soldier set foot on the other side of the street, he turned just in time to see a young woman catch her toe on the jagged edge of a shard of masonry and go tumbling to the pavement in a heap.

“Cut, goddamnit! Cut!”

The procession came to a halt as they were suddenly bathed in bright, harsh illumination, like animals caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. Each of them turned their heads, squinting as they regarded the portly man who had spoken. He was striding purposefully toward them, framed by the powerful lamps situated at his rear.

“Here we go,” the soldier breathed, slumping his shoulders as he dug in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. His eyes scanned the other personnel standing near the phosphorescent lights shining on him. “Anybody got a light? Other than the one currently blinding me, I mean.”

“Shut up, Pierce,” the man said, his voice no more than a visceral growl. Pierce smirked as a sharply dressed man dashed over to him and lit his smoke. The portly man, who had finally closed to within a step of the woman who had fallen, stooped down to study her. “And you, young lady. Are you tired? Has crossing this street exhausted you? Are you so fatigued that your body can barely function? I certainly hope so, because otherwise your clumsiness is needlessly delaying my film!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Golding,” the young woman said, cautiously rising to her feet. “I’m not tired. It’s just a bit dark out here and I lost my balance.”

Mr. Golding glowered at the young woman. “It’s dark out here because the scene calls for it. The scene also calls for you and the rest of these so-called actors to cross the street without falling on your faces. Do you think you can manage that, or should I find somebody else capable of walking in a straight line?”

“Give the girl a break, Jerry. She’s doing her best,” Pierce said. He pulled a lungful of smoke from his cigarette, and then exhaled a thin stream of smoke as the director turned to look at him. Pierce sauntered over to Golding and the young woman and took her hand in one of his own. He patted it gently and tipped her a wink. “We’ve been out here for hours tromping to the beat of your drum. I think we could all use a break.”

“Pierce, I don’t give a good goddamn what you think,” Golding said. He was fuming now, and his pudgy hands had closed into fists. “If you don’t like the way I’m running this show maybe you should just–“

“Jerry…” Pierce said, placing his hands on Golding’s shoulders and looking into his eyes. The director immediately stopped shouting, the words dying in his throat, and stared back at Pierce. “I mean it. We all need a break. Just a short one. To clear our heads.”

Pierce took his hands off of Golding, and the director took a hesitant step backward. He blinked his eyes rapidly and then his brows knit together in consternation. He flipped one of his hands in a dismissive fashion, gesturing to the entire crew. “Go then. All of you. Take an hour for lunch. But when you get back I want this take done in one!”

“Aye, aye, mon capitan,” Pierce said, snapping off a salute and smartly rounding on his heels. He beamed at the cast and crew of “The Fighting Fox” and spread his arms wide as Golding shuffled away in the background. “You heard the man, ladies and gents. Let’s have some fun!”

The Hangman in…

TIGHTENING THE NOOSE

By Mike Exner III

“Jerry’s a brilliant director. He is. But he can also be a real ass,” Pierce said. He poured a glass of water and then gestured with the pitcher in the direction of the young woman standing near the door to his trailer. “Would you like some?”

“Oh, no… no, thank you,” the young woman said. Her arms were folded over her bosom, and she was awkwardly shifting her weight from foot to foot as she analyzed the walls for something, anything to focus on. “I’m not really thirsty.”

Pierce smirked as he poured another glass of water. “You don’t have to be nervous, uh–what was your name again?”

The young woman finally cracked a small smile, and lifted a hand to pull a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s Emily. Emily Donaldson.”

“Emily, yes. Of course. I knew that,” Pierce said, crossing the trailer with a glass of water in each hand. “As I was saying, you don’t have to be nervous, Emily. I only invited you here to make up for Jerry’s boorish behavior. I don’t bite, and although normally I’d recommend avoiding the water in southern California, this is the good stuff. Straight from the mountains of Kilimanjaro or the Alps or somewhere equally imposing, I’m sure. And honestly, it’s always a good idea to hydrate oneself when you’re on set. Those lights can really take it out of you.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” Emily said, taking the glass from Pierce, and clinking it gently against his own before tilting her head back to take a long drink. The water was cool and refreshing and soothed her parched throat, and without intending it she drained the entire glass. Emily noisily smacked her lips when she had finished, and Pierce burst into laughter.

Emily blushed, her pale skin burning a deep crimson. “I’m sorry. I guess I was thirstier than I thought.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Pierce said, the ghost of a chuckle still in his voice. He set his partially full glass of water on the countertop near the pitcher and motioned for Emily to do the same. He refilled her glass. “You’re rather captivating when you drink.”

Yeah, thanks.” Emily rolled her eyes before taking another drink, forcing herself to sip this time. “I guess I’m just still nervous. I mean–this is the first time I’ve ever been in a movie. My first role ever, y’know? And then I go and fall flat on my face, the director yells at me, and now here I am in Roland Pierce’s dressing room.”

“Ha! So you are,” Pierce said, leaning back against the counter. “But seriously, there’s nothing to get worked up about. I’ve flubbed my lines dozens of times. I’ve tripped, slipped and flopped like a fish on camera. We all make mistakes now and then. But we’re actors. You just use the embarrassment and the nerves and you hit the next scene out of the park.”

Emily smiled. “Easy for you to say. There’s not much risk of you getting fired. You’re Roland Pierce. Actors like you are the reason people go to the movies in the first place.”

“It wasn’t always like that,” Roland said, and for the briefest of moments his eyes clouded in such a way that Emily’s breath caught in her throat. But then he smiled, the clouds cleared, and Emily couldn’t say for certain if the clouds had ever been there at all.

“There was a time when I couldn’t act my way out of a paper sack,” Pierce said.” But god, I loved it. Back then I didn’t give a damn whether people came to see me or not. It was all about the craft. The technique. I let the roles consume me, and I cherished every moment of it.”

“And then what happened?” Emily said, drawing closer. She’d put her glass down, and now her hand was resting gently on Roland’s arm. Her touch was soft, like velvet, and Roland felt a vague stirring from deep within.

“I got greedy,” Roland said, shifting his arm to break contact with Emily. “I saw the success that others had and I wanted it for myself. So I made a deal with a renowned make-up artist and transformed myself into, and I quote, ‘the most terrifyingly realistic movie monster in cinematic history’.”

Emily’s brow furrowed as she sidled closer to Roland. “I don’t remember you ever doing a monster movie.”

“Nobody does,” Roland said, snaking an arm around Emily’s waist. He walked her away from the counter towards a mirror set near a corner of the main room of the trailer. “It was a lifetime ago. I was a different man then.”

“What do you mean?” Emily said, doing her best to seem genuinely inquisitive as she struggled to keep from laughing aloud. She wasn’t naïve. She was sure Roland was feeding her lines to get her into his bedroom, but she’d already decided to play along. Despite his bizarre flirting, Roland Pierce was an amazing actor, and looked even more amazing in person than he did on screen. Physical attraction wasn’t the only thing that mattered to Emily Donaldson, but for the time being she was going to go with it.

Roland smiled lecherously down at her, as if he’d plucked the lustful thoughts straight from her mind, and then gestured in the direction of the mirror. “See for yourself.”

Emily looked into the mirror. And then she screamed. A creature with mottled skin the color of a rotting red apple stood by her side. A single webbed appendage with four digits clutched her by the waist, each grotesquely long finger ending in a curved claw that dug into her hip. Emily could feel the pain of the claws burrowing through her flesh and scraping the bone beneath. Her eyes lifted to the gruesome visage of the creature, framed by long, disheveled hair matted with dark, congealed blood. The creature grinned humorously at her with sharp, yellowing teeth, and as she looked into its amber, reptilian eyes her bowels clutched as she recognized its lustful hunger.

Emily tore herself away from the creature, blubbering and shrieking in terror as she bolted for the door to the trailer. Her hand closed around the knob and she wrenched it with all of her might, but the door remained firmly closed. She pounded against the frame, screaming until her throat blistered in protest.

When her voice gave out, she noticed the lack of any other sound in the trailer. She hazarded a look back in the direction she’d come, the cords in her neck stretching audibly, and noticed with childish relief that there was nothing there. The creature was gone.

“Do you know why I choose you?”

The voice came from directly behind her and Emily screamed again, whirling around and lashing out all at once, her fingers curved into talons. She struck nothing but air, and her momentum caused her to lose her balance. She stumbled backward and fell onto the surprisingly lush carpet of the trailer.

A hand seized her hair and began pulling her across the ground. Emily screamed, ripping with her fingernails at the monster gripping her scalp. Her hair was released, and Emily bolted to her feet, backpedaling until the small of her back struck the countertop, the glasses and pitcher of water trembling slightly at the impact.

Roland Pierce stood across the room from her, cradling his injured hand. He looked as he had before the mirror had transformed him into a beast, only now his dusty military uniform had been replaced by a dark blue, black and blood red tunic, cinched tightly to his frame by a large leather belt with a golden clasp. Form-fitting, midnight blue trousers tucked into rugged, calf-high leather boots completed the ensemble. His eyes looked at her, and for a moment Emily believed the pain etched on his features was genuine. She barely caught herself before taking a comforting step forward. Roland saw this, and he smiled. Emily was horrified to see that his teeth were jagged, and the color of aged mustard.

“You shouldn’t have hurt me, Emily.”

“What are you?” Emily said. She allowed her hands to seek purchase on the countertop, to ground her in some kind of reality. Her fingertips grazed the glasses and the pitcher of water.

Roland shrugged, noncommittally, as he pulled on a set of brown leather gloves that matched the shade of his boots. “I’ve shown you what I am, girl. The question is… what are you?”

“What are you talking about?” Emily said, and she suddenly felt a spike of cold realization pierce her heart, numbing the terror. Her hand carefully probed the countertop, seeking purchase.

“You know precisely what I’m talking about,” Roland said calmly, reaching into one of his leather gloves and pulling out another dark blue piece of fabric. “I chose you for a reason, Emily. You never would have gotten the part if I hadn’t seen to it. I needed you here–with me.”

Roland tucked his hands into the fabric he’d pulled from his gloves, shaping it with measured care. “You’re an abomination. You hide your true nature from the world and expect it to cater to you.”

Emily gripped the handle of the pitcher of water. The liquid inside slowly bubbled, and then rapidly it began to boil.

Roland bowed his chin to his chest and placed the piece of fabric over his head. When he lifted it again to look at her, Emily saw that it was a hood the color of midnight blue, stained with inky black. All she could see of Roland Pierce now was his eyes, but they were no longer his. They were reptilian, and the sickish color of a festering wound.

Emily had seen enough. She lifted the boiling pitcher of water. She wasn’t terribly skilled with her mutant ability to generate heat; the truth was that the prejudices she’d experienced from her friends and family had made her ashamed of what she could do. Her parents had forbidden her to ever use her power, but she’d practiced enough in secret that she knew if push came to shove she could defend herself. She drew her arm back to toss the boiling stew of water at Roland Pierce. He’d be scalded, distracted, and then she’d walk over and finally see what she could really do with her powers… on him.

Something slithered across her neck then, like a snake, and she felt the coarseness of it as it wrapped its way around her throat. She heard the rasp of it in her ears.

“You’re a mutant, Emily. A modern day witch,” the Hangman said. He smiled, and the fabric around the corners of his mouth twitched, as though it were alive. “And you know what happens to witches…”

The rope around Emily’s throat tightened with superhuman force, yanking her from her feet. The pitcher of boiling water slipped from her fingertips and shattered on the countertop as Emily’s face first turned red and then deep purple, her eyes bulging obscenely out of their sockets. The rope slackened, and Emily looked upon the Hangman one final time as she struggled to draw breath through her decimated windpipe. Then the rope tightened again, and her neck snapped like kindling.

“They get the noose.”

The Hangman stood in the trailer of the actor, Roland Pierce, looking down at his victim with an unreadable expression. There was no remorse or pity in his eyes–no anger or hatred or insanity or fear. There was nothing.

“Bravo, Jason. Braaaaavo.”

The Hangman’s eyes finally filled to the brim with emotion. It was a look of purest loathing. He turned to regard the being that had materialized in the trailer. Mephisto, one of the most powerful lords of Hell, met the Hangman’s gaze and then took a grandiose, exaggerated bow.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” the Hangman said.

Mephisto abruptly straightened, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to offend. But it is your name after all, is it not?”

The Hangman dropped to a knee and curled the fingers of one of his hands beneath the rope cinched around the throat of Emily Donaldson. He grasped the knot with his other hand and gradually loosened the noose until it was large enough to be taken from her neck.

“It’s not my name anymore, and you damn well know that, Mephisto. I’m Roland Pierce now.”

“Maybe to the sheep milling about out there, you are,” Mephisto said, hooking a thumb toward the door of the trailer, and then leaning in close to wash the Hangman’s face with a breath of brimstone. “But you and I both know the truth. Your real name is Jason Roland. Jason Pierce Roland. A desperate actor that made a deal with who you thought was Satan so you could be a big movie star. You were turned into a movie monster so realistic that it was hardly distinguishable from the real thing.”

Roland grinned humorlessly. “Yeah, I looked a lot like you, come to think of it.”

“Ah, touché,” Mephisto said, arching an eyebrow sardonically. “At any rate, you were a real hit at the box office. Made oodles of money and had the chance to be a big star. But you got greedy. The price for your fame was your soul, but you weren’t having it. So as punishment you were transformed into the monster permanently, and you went into hiding until–“

“Yeah, look. I don’t need a history lesson about my own life,” the Hangman said with a snarl. “I found out it was Sattanish I’d made the deal with, and so I made another deal. I went after the Avengers for him, but they kicked my tail. Eventually I helped Sattanish steal some souls from you to give it another go. And when we failed again, Sattanish gave you my soul as payment for what we’d done.”

Mephisto clapped vigorously. “Right you are! And now we have a deal of our own, don’t we? I’ve changed your face, granted you fame and fortune! The acting career you always wanted is yours, isn’t it?”

The Hangman looked at the ground, saying nothing. Mephisto reached out and curled his fingers into the Hangman’s hair. He yanked with terrible force, and the Hangman’s eyes watered as they met Mephisto’s blistering gaze.

“Isn’t it, you miserable wretch!?”

“Yes!”

Mephisto released his grip, and ran his fingers down the Hangman’s clothing, smoothing the folds. As he did, the tunic changed back into the dusty military uniform of “The Fighting Fox”.

“Then if you want to keep the life you’ve always desired, you’d better continue finding me powerful souls to consume. Because I’m hungry, Jason–and I want mutant meals. I want superhuman soup to sip. I’ve given you power, and I want power in return.”

“I’m well aware of the deal, Mephisto. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain.”

“You’d better,” Mephisto said, as he plucked the body of Emily Donaldson from the ground and cradled her in his arms. Noxious black smoke poured from the floor of the trailer and began to flow over the demon. “If it helps, just think of it as an encore performance.”

The smoke dissipated, and the Hangman who had once been Jason Roland and was now Roland Pierce was left alone.

“Where the hell is Donaldson?” Jerry Golding said, his gruff voice carrying over the set and causing each of his numerous assistants to visibly cringe. “We’re already behind schedule as it is! If she’s not back on set in five minutes–“

“She quit,” Roland Pierce said. He was standing in the shadows, with the rest of the actors huddled behind him in the darkness. In his mind’s eye, the tanks had just rumbled through the derelict streets, and now it was his responsibility to show these few survivors the way to safety. Any thought of the woman he’d throttled only minutes ago bled from his mind like poison sucked from a snakebite. He was back in his element now. He was home. He flashed Jerry with a winning smile. One of the many weapons he possessed.

“I guess acting just wasn’t for her.”