Everyone's a Critic - Page 02

This is a story about four people; critics paid to criticize other people's work. For years they've given their honest opinions on books of every genre they ever reviewed. Some reviews have been nice, others have been brutal. On the subject of horror, each showed no mercy on the writers who worked their fingers to the bone to create a masterpiece. Most of the writers tried other genres to overcome the ridicule, and some just gave up.

Today, the four critics, three men and one female, woke up each with their arms and legs tied to old wooden chairs, and someplace they've never been before. It took awhile for their eyes to adjust to the sunlight peeking through the boarded up windows. Their location was an old, abandoned cabin, sealed up tight for many years. Nothing but dust, dirt, and some cobwebs were what decorated the old place.

"What's going on?" One of the men asked, snapping out of it. "Where the hell am I?"

"What's going on?" The woman asked. "Where am I? Who are you people?"

"Is this a joke?" The second man asked, with a severe pounding in his head. "Who the fuck hit me? Who fucking did it? Was it one of you?"

"Seriously?" The third man asked. "We're all in the same predicament, so how could it be one of us? Help! Help! Is anyone out there? Can anyone hear us?"

"How did we get here?" The woman asked. "Wait, am I gagged?"

The others took notice of her as the only one wearing a surgical mask. The first man wore a turtleneck, the second wore an earring, and the other sported a goatee with a few grey hairs.

"What is this?" She asked. "What am I wearing? What the hell am I wearing?"

"Calm down," said the first man, "it's just a mask."

"Just a mask? Why am I the only one who's wearing it? What the fuck is going on?"

"Just calm down. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation as to why we're all here."

"Like what?"

"How about who are we? We do we all have in common?"

"The fact that we're all tied up and wasting time," the third man said, "that's what we have in common. We need to concentrate in getting the fuck out of here, that's what we need to do. Help! Somebody help!"

"This is going nowhere."

"Hellllllp! We're in here! Helllllp! Somebody help us!"

"Will you shut up, please? We need to work together and think about this."

"Well, you think and I'll continue screaming. Helllllp! Somebody!"

He discontinued screaming once the door to the cabin slowly opened up. Stepping inside was a tall man, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask. He also came in carrying a handgun, leaving the others shaking in their assigned seats. He slammed the door behind him, looking at each of their faces, seeing the fear building in their eyes, leaving them to wonder about their fates.

"Had a nice nap?" He asked. "Are you all fully awake and done arguing with one another? Good, now we can get started. We have so much to talk about."

"What's going on? Who are you?" The second man asked. "Why are we tied up in...where the hell are we?"

"Someplace private where no one can hear us from miles away. Who am I you ask? The real question is who are you? Let me tell you. You're troublemakers. All of you. People who make a big deal over nothing. People who don't know when to shut up."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you people. You're all critics. Critics who enjoy making fools out of the authors whose books you review all because they weren't to your liking. I've heard just about every lame review from the likes of you. Bad grammar, poor dialogue, too long, too short, too dull and the list goes on and on. Does every book have to be perfect? Is that what you all prefer, perfection?"

"So what are you, one of those writers who was publicly humiliated by us?"

"No, I'm a fan of the one writer you publicly humiliated. He's a great writer and you people used to praise him for his work. His name...is Jack Shaw."

The name rang bells for each of them. Jack Shaw was a successful writer and well respected among his peers. He started off writing dramas; his books were minor successes. Once he got into fantasy and adventure, his life completely changed overnight. Two of his books became hit films. When he started writing horror for the first time, his world came crumbling down.

"Jack Shaw", said the woman, "I know who that is."

"Yeah," said the first man, "so do I. He wrote good stories, really good stories. Then he tried his hand in horror and it failed. He should have stuck with what he was good at."

"No," said the masked man, "he tried his hand in horror and he succeeded. You four assholes made it fail because you couldn't appreciate a good story when you see one. Isn't that right...Marty Sullivan?"

The name drew the attention of the others. They all paid close attention to what the masked man had to say about captive number one.

"You heard it, people," said the masked man. "Marty Sullivan, critic for the Daily Cosmos, wrote a book about his top favorite novels, most of them about elves and fairies because those are the stories he likes the most. Until one day he reviewed a horror story called Hell Storm. That story was a classic, but Marty here called it garbage and that it should be tossed in a bonfire. Sound familiar?"

Jack's fans read the column, sending shock waves among the community. They were appalled by Marty's words, but others showed their support of his opinion on the book itself. The man practically led a crusade on having the book removed from every book store in town.

"I nearly puked," said the masked man, "at your poor excuse for a review. I could have wiped my ass with that shit you wrote. It was a complete disrespect to the man."

"Let me understand this," said Marty, "you brought us all here because we insulted your favorite author over one bad book? You're taking this way too personally."

"There was nothing bad about it. Sure, it was violent like any ordinary story he'd written, but you couldn't stand the more graphic scenes that took place. I guess you didn't have the stomach to deal with the torture scene. I thought the girl getting revenge on the guy who brutalized her was great. Sweet revenge like no other."

"I thought that book was in poor taste. A story like that shouldn't be sold or read to anyone in this day and age. Period."

"Why, because you say so? Because of your big mouth, the book undersold. It went nowhere fast because you didn't like the content. Boo fucking hoo."

"What are you going to do, shoot me? You want to kill all of us, is that it? Is that why we're all here?"

"No, that would be too easy. If I wanted to kill you you'd be dead already, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Then what, torture? You want to recreate the torture scene from the book?"

"No, I don't need to recreate a masterpiece. I'm here to give you all something to remember me by."

"Like what?"

The masked man pointed his weapon at Marty's kneecap, pulling the trigger once. Marty was in so much pain he had trouble breathing. The big hole in his knee poured so much blood it looked more like a water fountain. The other three were horrified at what took place before them.

"Oh my God!", said the female.

"What the fuck?" Said Marty, still tied to the chair and unable to tend to his wound. "Ah, shit! What the fuck? You fucking shot me!"

"I know," said the masked man, "you'll be a cripple for the rest of your life. You won't be doing any crusading any time soon. Now, let's say hello to Mr. Dick Douglas, well renown critic for the Downtown Press."

Dick Douglas was ready to piss on himself after the little demonstration the abductor put on.

"Please," he begged, "I have a family."

"When he reviewed Hell Storm, he called it a bore and tacky little tale about how the human conscious would resort to savagery for their own gain. Thanks to you all book signings were cancelled. You know, I was ready to meet Jack that one day and get my copy autographed. When I found out the event was cancelled, I was devastated. Depressed. All thanks to you and your bitching and moaning."

"Please, I didn't mean for this to happen. It was just a review, that's all. It's not a big deal."

"But you did make it a big deal when you opened your mouth and blabbed how bad the book was."

"Please, this is wrong. You can't do this. Please, I'll do anything. Don't shoot me."

"Oh, you'll do anything, all right. Believe me when I tell you that this will hurt you more than it does me."

"No, wait."

With his right hand strapped to the chair's arm, Dick could do nothing but watch the masked man fire his second shot. The bullet pierced the back of his hand, out the palm, straight into the floor. Dick's pain was so great he stood on his tiptoes, almost tipping the chair and himself over.

"Oh, shit!" He screamed. "My hand! My fucking hand! You fucking bastard!"

"If I've done enough damage," said the masked man, "you won't be typing any reviews with both your hands."

"Son of a bitch! You miserable fuck! I will fucking kill you! My fucking hand! Fuck!"

"Next."

The masked man approached chair number three, leaving behind puddles of blood that grew larger once they touched one another. Dick nearly tipped over once again, attempting to break loose and fight off the pain. Marty was in tears, seeing his own blood spilling and feeling the intense pain gripping his entire body.

"You keep away from me," said the third man. "Keep that fucking gun away from me!"

"Hank Preston, critic for the Daily River. Two days after the book's release he said he read it in two hours. That must be a record for you."

"Listen," said Hank, "i'll give you money if you let me go, right this minute."

"Hank here said the book's shock value was absurd and laughable. He also thought the idea of a woman seeking revenge is mere fantasy and not possible. It's the work of a man still fantasizing his childhood dreams of men dominated by women. You really know how to hurt a guy. One day Jack Shaw was supposed to appear on the local radio station to promote his book. Two days before the interview you got on the radio yourself, telling everyone how bad the book was. Thanks to your honest opinion, the interview was called off."

"You want me to apologize to the man? Is that it? You want a public apology on the radio? I'll make it happen. I know some people who-."

"You think an apology will make a difference? You think an apology will fix the damage you caused on the poor man? He's in rehab because of you. Yeah, he was a drinker but your words nearly drove him mad. You disrespected the man for his craft and that is unacceptable."

"Look, if you're gonna kill me, do it already. Listening to those two crying is torture enough."

"Fuck you!" Dick shouted. "I have a fucking hole in my hand!"

"Shut up! I don't give a shit if you have a hole in your head."

"My fucking knee was shot!" Marty screamed.

The masked man walked around Hank's chair, standing right behind him, putting the gun to the back of his head.

"How about you, Hank?" He asked. "Would you like a hole in your head? If you don't like the noise, all you had to do was say so."

Hank thought his life would end right there and then. The masked man pulled the trigger twice. Instead of shooting him in the head, he fired his shots near Hank's ears. Soon it became his turn to scream in agonizing pain. The ringing in his ears was so severe it felt like his head would explode. His main concern was the possible damage done to his hearing.

"Is that better?" The masked man asked.

"I can't hear," said Hank, panicking. "I can't hear. I can't hear anything."

"Problem solved. Now you won't be able to hear your own reviews anymore."

"You sick twisted bastard," said the woman. "You won't get away with this."

The masked man approached the last chair, turned around, looking at her face to face.

"Don't worry, princess," he said, "I didn't forget about you. Catherine Mason, critic for The Metro, but you prefer to do your reviews on TV, just to smile pretty for the lovely audience you so love. Out of all these fucking morons I expected better support from you. You, a woman, should have appreciated a story of a female fighting back against a man who left her for dead, doing so many bad things to him even though they were disgusting. What's the matter, you don't believe in female empowerment? That females are the weaker sex? Women are incapable of being strong? What world are you living in?"

"No," said Catherine, "no, you got it all wrong."

"You said a woman fighting back with hate in her heart is not realistic enough. That it's over dramatic and can't really happen. You're living in the past, lady. Women can fight, be tough, be brave, and they can kill like any normal man. I guess you think women can't be soldiers or serial killers, huh? I was in the army and I fought alongside female soldiers, and they had more guts than any man I ever knew. Thanks to you the TV interviews Jack had planned were called off. You convinced the network that the book was inappropriate for the writer to discuss on television."

"What do you want from me? I review people's work, so what? My words aren't meant to hurt anyone and they shouldn't."

"But they did hurt people. They hurt me...and Jack."

"You need help. You need some serious help."

"Lady, I'm not crazy."

"You could have fooled me," said Dick.

"What did you say?" Hank asked, struggling to clear his hearing.

"You people," said the masked man, "need your heads examined when discussing fine literature."

"Fine literature?" Catherine said. "Violence taken to another level is not fine literature. It's sick and depraved and has no business being in books or even shown in films. Our society is not built on savagery or insanity."

"You really are lost, lady."

"I've had enough of your ranting. Now why the hell am I wearing this thing? Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess? I demand an answer."

The moment that everyone had waited for had finally arrived.

"Why?" Said the masked man. "It's a surprise. I just wanted to lighten the mood before unwrapping the present. I guess the time is right to reveal to everyone the big secret behind the mask. What do you say, men? Are you ready for this?"

Neither man answered, but were curious to know what the masked man had done to her, and would her pain be any worse than theirs. The man removed the surgical mask from ear to ear, revealing to everyone no damage was done to Catherine's face. Not a cut or a scratch on any part of her flesh. It still didn't explain why she wore the mask to begin with.

"What?" She asked. "How do I look? Is it that bad?"

"No," said Dick, "you look fine. Oh, my fucking hand."

"I don't understand. Why was I wearing it?"

The masked man pulled out a small mirror, placing it right in front of Catherine, giving her a better look at her complexion.

"I don't see anything wrong," she said. "No cuts or bruises. I still have-."

Her attitude changed the moment she smiled, taking notice that something was missing. Something she enjoyed sharing with the rest of the world.

"What did you do?" She screamed. "What did you do?"

Her front teeth were gone. A few of her lower teeth were also missing. She took pride in her pearly whites; the one thing she loved showing off to the TV audience.

"Where are my teeth?" She continued screaming. "Oh, my God! Where are my teeth? What did you do?"

"It wasn't easy," the masked man said, "it almost took me all day to pull every one of them out. I had to keep you heavily dosed while I did the job. Plenty of gauze and rubbing alcohol did the trick. You won't be smiling on TV anymore, sweetheart."

Catherine burst into tears and felt an attack coming. Marty and Dick were annoyed by her high pitched screaming while Hank still couldn't hear a thing. Sitting close to her he did see what her problem was.

"My work here is done," said the masked man, preparing to leave. "It was fun playing our little game but I really must leave."

"Wait," said Dick, "you can't leave us out here."

"Don't worry, help is on the way. I wouldn't dream of leaving you filth behind."

"When I get out of here," said Marty, "you better sleep with one fucking eye open, asshole. I'll find you. You hear me?"

The masked man picked up the empty shells, shoving them deep in his pants pocket.

"Your words," said the masked man, "leave little to the imagination. It's over dramatic and just mere fantasy. Yeah, everyone's a critic. Nice knowing you fuckers."

The masked man took his leave. He was long gone by the time help arrived, and all four critics had survived their ordeal. Even after each recovered from their wounds, they were never the same. They were all broken shells of their former selves.

Marty's knee was severely damaged from the shot he received at close range. He would spend the rest of his life limping with the use of a cane. Jogging was the one thing he enjoyed doing early every morning. He was heartbroken that he couldn't do it anymore.

Dick's hand lost all feeling. He continued writing reviews with one bad hand, but he didn't have that spark in him that would either trash some author's work or admire it. One day it took some time to write a review on a recent fantasy story. He tried typing with one hand only, but couldn't adjust to it. Out of frustration he slammed his laptop against the wall.

Had he received medical help sooner, Hank might have had a chance to have his hearing restored. He tried to learn sign language or use hearing aids but it didn't work for him. He fell into a deep depression and by the following week he killed himself.

Catherine disappeared from public view. She was never the same after her ordeal. Even after her friends advised her on the use of dentures or implants, she wouldn't feel like her old self again. She didn't feel natural wearing fake teeth and her days of smiling on television were ancient history.

The four critics were unable to identify their abductor. No one knew who he was or where he came from. The weapon and empty shells were never found. The masked man had simply vanished from the face of the earth.