"Amy, what is Andrew's favorite food?"

She felt her spirits rise as she remembered countless meals with her fiance. She was the open minded one, open to trying new things. He loved what he loved, no exceptions.

"Fettuccini alfredo!"

He looked up at her, his face twisted into a grimace. He shook his head as his breathing grew quicker.

"That is incorrect I'm afraid," said the voice. "According to our sources, he's a T-bone steak and potatoes man."

The midget rummaged through his wagon, pulling out a small ax. The audience responded with more cheering as he walked back toward Andrew.

Again, wasting no time, he raised the ax into the air and slammed it down on to Andrew's forearm. Blood splattered the executioner's mask as he wiggled the ax free.

Andrew shrieked between sobs, watching as the midget moved to his other arm. After severing that arm at the elbow, he tightened the straps above the spewing stumps. Andrew gurgled and moaned.

The mini-executioner grabbed the severed limbs and beckoned toward the crowd. They responded with cheers, jumping from their seats to address him. He threw one arm into the audience, then the other like souvenir t-shirts at a football game. Amy watched as they scrambled toward the limbs, wrestling with each other to claim the prize. She felt the blood rush to her face, her heart thumping in her chest.

"You f.u.c.king liars!" she yelled, "I know that answer was right, I'm his f.u.c.king fiancee for G.o.d's sake!"

"We have our sources my dear," said the voice, "and I'm afraid you are incorrect."

Amy thought hard, looking back at their relationship, all the meals they had together. She couldn't remember him ever ordering a steak, not once.

"Amy," said Andrew, his voice barely audible above the mumbling audience. "I'm sorry."

Blood leaked from the stumps of his arms, trickling onto the floor.

"Don't be sorry baby, we're gonna get outta here."

"Andrew," said the voice, "it's your turn."

The midget stood by his wagon, waiting for his next chance to wreak havoc.

"What is Amy's favorite food?"

Andrew looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the speaker. His breathing came in short gasps, mucus stretching from his lip. Amy could see him shaking, his skin turning pale.

"Eg-eggplant parmesan," he muttered, "with a c-cesar s-salad."

"That is correct."

Fresh tears rolled down Amy's cheeks as she watched Andrew slump back into his chair. He fought to hold onto consciousness, lifting his head just enough to lock eyes with her.

"Amy, how long have you two been in a serious relationship?"

"Three years, five months, and ten days," she said, remembering every day she spent with her love.

"Correct."

The audience booed, hungry for more blood. The executioner shuffled his feet, anxious for the next question.

"Andrew," said the voice, "when was the last time you were intimate with Amy?"

For a second, Amy thought he had pa.s.sed out, but then he spoke, barely audible.

"Last night," he said, "we made love last night."

Amy's stomach dropped as she stared at her wounded lover.

Last night?

They weren't even together last night. He told her that he had to work late. She stayed at home and read her novel, sipping coffee as she waited for him.

What was he talking about?

"That is incorrect, I'm afraid."

"Andrew, what's going on?"

He glanced up at her, a look of surprise on his face. He seemed to realize that he messed up, that he blurted out an answer without thinking.

Before Amy had time to think this through, she heard metal being pushed around. The midget held his hammer again, but also held two metal spikes. The crowd came alive as he waddled toward Amy.

He held the spike above her knee, the point of the metal dimpling her skin. Amy pleaded with him, begging him to stop. He slammed down the hammer, driving the spike into her leg. She screamed, sweat and tears dripping down her face. Her hands gripped the chair, her fingernails digging into the wood. She struggled, wiggling as the midget walked to her other leg. He repeated the process, the metal penetrating her bone. Amy screamed and bared her teeth at the small man.

"You mother f.u.c.kers, I'm gonna f.u.c.king kill you!" screamed Andrew, the sheer act of yelling causing him to grimace.

The audience went wild, some standing to cheer, others whistling. The executioner faced them, his hands in the air, taking in his fan's embrace.

Amy shivered, any small movement brought shockwaves of pain. She looked up at Andrew, feeling anything but love at that moment. At a time like this, how the h.e.l.l do you get an answer like that wrong?

"What were you thinking?"

He shook his head as he stared back at her.

"Amy, I will ask you the same thing," said the voice, "when was the last time you two were intimate?"

Amy never took her eyes off of Andrew, the pain in her legs almost too much to bear. She remembered the last time. Remembered how he lifted her into the air and f.u.c.ked her where he stood. She told her friends how sore she was the next day.

"Thursday, three nights ago."

"Correct."

The audience booed again, anxious for their executioner's next trick.

Andrew screamed, grabbing the attention of the crowd. Their snickering quieted as they all stared at the blubbering man.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," he said, "you f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

The crowd burst into laughter, elbowing each other as they cackled.

Amy's thoughts were full of questions as she looked down at her wounded thighs. Her stomach threatened to empty itself as she stared at the gushing blood, the heads of the nails shining in the light. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was somewhere else.

The booming voice from above brought her back to reality.

"Amy, has Andrew ever been unfaithful to you?"

Amy thought back to their relationship, how perfect everything seemed. Andrew used to tell her that she was the only thing in the world worth living for, how he would do anything in his power to make sure she was happy. They used to lie around all day, making love and talking. She couldn't imagine her love, the only person to ever make her feel this way, ever doing anything to deceive her. The look on Andrew's face as he awaited her answer made her feel differently.

"No," she said, "he would never do anything like that to me."

Andrew made a low growling sound, his muscles rippling as he struggled in his seat. Blood pumped from his stumps as he tensed up, doubling him over in his seat to moan in pain.

"That is incorrect," said the voice, sending the audience into a frenzy.

This couldn't be happening. Andrew could never do a thing like that. He loved her. He had always said how much he loved her and how he could do nothing to ever hurt her. But now, she saw a different side of him, a look of guilt and shame as he wept in his chair.

"That's bulls.h.i.t!" yelled Amy, refusing to believe such nonsense.

"I'm afraid it's not," said the voice. "Observe."

A loud click brought a flickering image onto the blank wall to Amy's right. The image showed Andrew holding hands with a woman. They sat at a table opposite each other, a big steak on his plate.

"You mother f.u.c.kers!" yelled Andrew, causing more uproar from the crowd.

The image changed. Andrew leaned over the table, his lips planted on the woman's mouth.

Amy stared at the flickering images, her mouth hanging open. She gasped as she saw her fiance, her one and only, straddling the woman from behind. More photos continued to flash onto the wall, each one worse than the last. Amy felt numb, her thighs no longer an issue.

The midget stood in front of Andrew, holding a large pair of gardening shears. This time he did hesitate, looking over at the crowd, their whooping and yelling getting louder as their antic.i.p.ation grew. He opened the shears, placed them between Andrew's legs, and snapped them shut.

Andrew's eyes burst open, screaming as his member fell to the floor with a thump. Blood rained down from the fresh wound, a crimson waterfall splashing onto the floor.

The mini-executioner grabbed the limp flesh, gesturing to the crowd. The audience pushed and shoved each other, their hands in the air, pleading him to throw them the souvenir.

Amy felt no sorrow for Andrew.

That son of a b.i.t.c.h, how could he do this to me?

After everything they had been through. All the nights spent expressing their love for each other, it was all bulls.h.i.t. The flesh being tossed into the crowd was supposed to be hers, was supposed to give her children.

Andrew looked up from his blood soaked chair, his face twisted and contorted. He stared at Amy with hazy eyes.

"I l-love you,' he said, struggling with every syllable. "I-I'm so s-sorry."

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

The voice from above broke the tension.

"Now, we haven't much time. This next question I will direct at Amy. You need to really think about it, and make sure you mean what you say."

Andrew wept, going into coughing fits as Amy awaited her question.

"Do you love Andrew?"

The audience grew quiet; every white, blank face staring at Amy. Even the midget had his full attention on her, blood dripping from his gloved hands.

"Think clearly now," said the voice, "make sure you mean it."

She looked over at her fiance. He breathed in rapid gasps, blood spilling from his atrocious wounds. She did love him. No matter what he had done to her, she couldn't help but love him.

Contemplating their relationship, she thought about all the great times they had together, all the sleepless nights making love. She thought about their destination wedding, how they were supposed to get married on the beach in Mexico. They were supposed to start a family together.

She looked over at the audience, holding their breath as they awaited her answer. She shook her head, causing the crowd to erupt with applause.

"No."

The hurt in Andrew's eyes at that moment was worse than any she had seen since the game started.

"Finish it!" yelled the voice from above, sending the audience to their feet. They clapped and cheered, some jumping up and down with excitement.

The executioner pulled out a long saw. He ran his hand down the jagged teeth, getting the crowd more and more excited.

He swung the saw, sticking it into the side of Andrew's neck. Andrew hardly even flinched, even as the midget began moving the metal back and forth.

Andrew stared at Amy.

His eyelids flickered as the saw cut through his flesh, blood dribbling from his mouth and nose. He kept his eyes locked on his fiancee, refusing to take them away.

Amy felt a nagging feeling of regret, watching her once true love's head hit the ground. The midget picked it up and walked toward her. He undid the straps of her chair and helped her stand up. Her legs throbbed with pain as she stood, the metal nails digging deeper into her flesh.

The midget handed her Andrew's head, fresh warm blood pouring from it.

Amy smiled at him, took the head, and tossed it into the crowd.

The Bloodmites.

by Jared Donald Blair.

William sat, spine erect, within his lavish leather armchair, ensconced by an intangible yet unmistakable fear. His ears remained ever attentive as his gritty fingernails delved deeper into the stiff material on the armrests. For over an hour he simply sat, muscles tensed and b.u.t.tocks clinched, listening to the walls. Intermittently, his reddened eyes affixed to various spots in the room, never blinking, never wavering. His reading quarters, usually an area of solace and reprieve, now became a mausoleum of aural affliction and mental torment. From his perch in the center of the room, alit only by a single candle on the table before him, he witnessed shadows of perpetual fluctuation dance along the walls and looming bookcases. Yet still he failed to catch even a glimpse of these perceived scurrying marauders. His head shot back as his focus ran to the ceiling, a darkened chasm due to its height and insufficient illumination. The sound mounted to that of one thousand knives sc.r.a.ping and prodding against the walls. He imagined the patter of innumerable, tiny, sharp legs parading throughout the inner-framework of his home. He quivered with every fanciful fabrication; this was all he could take.

"Enough! That's it!" William leapt from his seat within a fit of exaggerated trembles. "This must stop!" Tossing up his hands, he made for the door. Gripping the cold handle, he threw open the dense wood. Yet as it swung adjacent to the threshold, he let out a coa.r.s.e yelp and fell to the floorboards.