Delicious spires of dark alchemy twist upward into mighty pinpoints building inverted twisters in my mind. The wind whips cold across my face and I lick my lips not only to alleviate their dryness but also because I can taste the sweet effervescent victory which I will one day claim over my enemies, may their blood forever flow freely through the streets.
“Good morning Mr. Peterman.”
I tip my hat as I hold the door open.
He grunts, or is that a fart, and passes unhindered without so much as a nod in my direction.
Words… all day words drip like acid from my tired tongue to fall to the ground like so much sludge, unheeded, unheard, under foot. Unloved. Would my blade slice them clean from rectum to mouth so that their bodies be splayed open like some new species of gothic gore-ridden butterfly to be examined by all. Let their innards be the foundation of others merriment for a change.
“It’s Tony, Ma’am.”
I hold the door open for Mrs. Lipchitz.
“Gary, has my package arrived?”
“There have been no deliveries today Ma’am.”
“Why on earth not?”
She stands there, expecting an answer.
“That I do not know but I will be sure to ring your apartment the second something with your name shows up.”
She eyes me suspiciously.
“See that you do.”
Your skin would make a nice lamp shade.
That is what I should have said to her, the woman with a lifetime supply of distain for mouthwash. I want to cut the webbing between each of her toes an inch into her foot and the make her run across a great salt flat on a hot day. Perhaps tethered to a cart as I whip her bare back making her dig her bare, bloody feet deep into the salty earth while her naked floppy tits sling beads of sweat and tears this way and that.
“Here, let me get that for you miss.”
The teenage daughter of the man on the top floor is at the door. From the inside of her tacky purse a pint sized pup peers condescendingly over the edge. Even the dog finds a way to look down on me.
To the girl, I am not even worth looking down on. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence as I stand there holding the door. Of course the door is supposed to magically open for her… all doors do.
“Have a nice day.” I say as I bow.
The notion of killing that dog, skinning it, stuffing it with its own shit, baking it to a golden brown, and serving it to that little girl stands proudly in my brain. It stands maddeningly – its bold presence mocking my current posture. I can feel it standing on my bent back, its weight threatening to press me ever closer to the ground, ever down towards a lower, more subservient stance. It actively mocks.
The door closes and even though it is freezing out here in the cold I take a kerchief from my pocket and wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. As I lift my hat to perform this task my bald head balks at the bitter wind which comes swooshing by to whisper greeting. I feel the beaded perspiration evaporate and chill my head flesh to an even deeper level of anti-Hell. I shake in my jacket and replace my hat as fast as I can.
All day, every day, year in and year out this is what I do. Open the door for people who could care less for just enough money to make it to the next day – a day where I repeat the process in an effort to repeat the process again and so on and so forth until the days and the faces and the breezes all become a mighty blur of forced smiles and broken knuckles.
My hands hurt all the time.
Gripping the door’s handle over and over again… early onset arthritis.
I would have trouble holding a knife if I ever decided to act on my desires. My dreams. My fantasies. I realize them for what they are but they get me through the day and in the end it is my cross to bear. I feel the splinters digging into my bare back day in and day out but still I lug that thing around. It is all I know.
Chef's knife with Dripping blood

This one I want to kill. This one I want to make cry. This one I want to hurt. Over and over and over again… all the time, making their pain last a million eternities. Or at least until the end of my shift, whichever comes first.
I want to strip them naked and eat them alive, taking bite after nasty bite, slowly ripping out chunks of their flesh with vicious chewing, which I know would make my jaws hurt, until their screams and begging me to stop grow weaker and weaker. I wonder how long that would take – to bite someone to death. I would chomp through their fingers one digit at a time so they could slowly watch their chances of ever holding anything they love slowly evaporate.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders and rub. It is colder than a dead pre-school teacher’s cunt out here. I have been told to stand regally in front of the door, to respect the stature and tradition of the position, but I am not wearing a tall fuzzy hat and this ain’t London luv. I pace back and forth watching the cars breeze by; each one stirs the frosty wind into some further, darker, perversion of itself.
It is damn cold.
“Evening Mr. Jasper, some weather we’re having.”
I open the door as the fat, hairy man eyeballs me. His eyes are telling me I overstepped my bounds discussing something as common as the weather with him in passing. I smile and nod, like an idiot.
Him I would set naked in a cold basement, tied by a chain connecting a collar around his neck to the floor, surrounded by nothing but cold concrete. I would leave him down there overnight until every inch of his skin were freezing. Then I would go down there with a belt and whip him until I had covered every inch of his pasty tub-butt with long, sharp, angry neon welts. I would make him beg for me to stop and then leave him in the cold again only repeating the process the next night and so on and so forth until he begins to cry every time he hears the door open like some big blubbery baby.
That is what I would do.
The door closes and I reassert myself as a part of the building’s ambiance… a part of its dressing… a part of the background. I used to smoke but then all the propaganda of the age got to me and I gave it up. I miss it though. It was something to do. Now I don’t do the time the time does me. I wish I could pace back and forth but that would never fly. Somehow they consider my imprisonment before this door in this monkey suit to be some form of class… some form of regality.
I brighten up the place.
A taxi pulls in front of the door and an old lady who I have never seen before gets out.
“I have bags in the back.”
I nod and go to the trunk which has popped open. Bags indeed she has. Enough to fill my hands and bend my back as I stumble towards the door. There she stands, waiting for me to open it. I fumble with the handle and my gnarled, twisted fingers until I finally am able to pull the heavy door back and await her entrance. She enters and strolls right up to the elevator not bothering to see if I am behind her because of course I am.
On the way up, in my head, I slowly and carefully slice off each of her eye lids. Then I place a fan in front of each one so they dry out and can’t be shut. I then sprinkle fine, crumbled fiberglass in front of the fans so the miniscule jagged pieces dust her retinas like a thousand tiny razor blades. I want her to ‘see’ every ounce of pain she endures.
The elevator opens and she exits sans instruction. I am expected to follow and I do. At the end of the hall she opens her door and I lug her bags into her abode. She points to the kitchen counter and continues further into the place. I pull the bags up with all my might and rest against the counter, spent. My balls are sweating.
The old lady swings back into the kitchen.
“Oh lord, you aren’t standing there expecting a tip are you?”
I wave my hand trying to catch my breath.
“N-No ma’am.”
“Good because this is all part of your job. I wish I could stand around all day and just earn money.”
“Yes ma’am, of course.” I nearly choke on my words but find the strength to say them and step out of the apartment.
I want to seal her anus shut with an industrial strength epoxy and then feed her nothing but mashed potatoes and laxative until shitty mash backs up and spills out her mouth.
In the lobby my boss, Mr. Samthington, is waiting for me.
“Where have you been?”
“I was carrying up bags for one of the occupants.”
“Which one?”
“I have… um… I don’t know. She’s in 1527.”
“That would be Mrs. Diggle. You need to learn the names of the people in this building.”
“I do my best sir.”
I head back to my post only to see Fred, my shift replacement, already standing there. I look at my watch, ten til. I had no idea it was so late. Behind me my boss growls,
“Yeah, we had no idea where you were so I sent him up early. And I’m docking you a quarter-hour. Next time let someone know. That door can’t be left un-manned.”
I do not comment. What’s the point? The door needs to be manned at all times, any moron should know that. On the ride home I get the same usual stares… a man in a doorman’s uniform riding the subway… ha ha. Kids point and giggle. My shoes pull at something sticky on the floor. I do my best to not mentally guess what it is but I fail… baby poop, leaked out of a loose diaper.
I enter my apartment with a sigh and plop down in my lazy boy. When I fix my T.V. dinner I will sit back in this chair, eat my food, and soak my feet in the foot massage 3000 my aunt got me for Christmas last year while I watch syndicated sit-coms. But first, I need to take a nice long piss. I let my head loll back into the neck rest.
My fantasies and my foot massager, the two things which make my life semi-tolerable.
“What a day.” I mumble. “How was yours?”
I look across the room at Mrs. Jefferson, room 1383. She of course can’t answer as her mouth is chocked open wide with a dental brace. Her jaw has been dislocated and all of her teeth have been extracted with pliers. Tears have made stain trails on her cheeks and she looks at me from the chair she is tied to with red- puffy eyes. I walk over to her and stroke her cheek.
“I’m sure your throat is dry but never fear, I’m going to take good care of you.”
She cries fresh tears as I pull out my dick and begin to pee.


Splatterpunk D.B.Tarpley’s story
‘The Doorman’
is from his upcoming collection
‘Pickle Party’
due out 12-31-2016.

The son of a poor immigrant philanthropist. D.B. Tarpley got his start writing dialogue for the imaginary friends of imagination deficient kids on the Lower East Side. ‘The Death of Love’ is D.B.Tarpley’s latest book. I am telling everyone and anyone who will listen to take a look at this book!… It’s a page turner… I have NO IDEA where Tarpley is going with this!… Tarpley must be a genius, he surprises in (both) big and little ways”. – five star review. Over the years D.B. has been discovered and recognized by the Lewis N. Clark committee for creative mastery; in addition to this D.B. was recently tossed the Paul Reubens Fellowship for excellence in self awareness. He currently Summers in Manitowoc, Wisconsin; and Winters in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. In addition to writing, D.B. is an internationally acclaimed adult diaper model/ pastry chef. His work has been featured in ‘Pee-n-Poop Wear Quarterly’ as well as ‘Dem Some Fine Damn Muffins Magazine.’ His advice to readers everywhere is “Leave the pages bloody.”
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D. B. TARPLEY “The Doorman”
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