"Oh dear.
Oh dear. Oh dear. My precious babies."
And that's it.
The tippin’ point.
That's where I lose control. Sometimes it wells up inside of me
, like I can kinda keep it in its place. I know I'm gonna do it even before I do it, but it still feels like a surprise when it happens.
Ka-bang
. My Mama said I had the Devil inside me.
I once told her I don’t have the Devil inside me. I got Jesus inside me, but sometimes he gets actin’ like the Devil. My God is a God that gives out justice when justice needs givin’. My God don’t like flippy-floppy dummies like this one.
I get to thinkin’ that she is wearing a sweater with a Christmas tree on it, and it’s got big silver, jingly bells hanging off it. I get to thinkin’ that she’s gonna die in that fucking sweater and it seems real fittin’.
"My Cherry Pie!" she wails now, falling to her knees. I'm not even sure she
’s thinking on what I just told her, about how she needs to clean up all the cat piss. She's still just whining over Cherry Pie.
She doesn't resist
when I get closer to her, because she's so damn shocked by the Devil that jus’popped out of my skin. I wonder if I look different when I get like this. I wonder if Jesus can see me when I turn into this new thing. I can barely remember what happens after I'm done with the deed. It must be pretty bad, because when my brain comes back to planet Earth, there's blood everywhere. It’s kinda always like this for me, not just with Marianne, but with all of them I killed before. I shake my head back and forth, trying to dig up the last thing I can remember.
Somebody on television once said there’s this thing called
am-neesh-uh
. Which means you forget things sometimes. Like big things, like when you kill somebody who’s wearing an idiotic sweater.
I look at the mess all around me. Must have been some serious
am-neesh-uh
.
Marianne's head is detached from her
neck, and it doesn't look like the Devil in me did it very cleanly. I think he used a dull knife--maybe a butter knife. Her head isn't completely detached though. One little strand of meat still connects it to the rest of her, which is sort of pushed over to the side of the kitchen. The meat coming out the top of her neck sort of has the color of a
real
hotdog, pinkish and juicy.
Her face is stuck in this crazy grin. I wonder if she enjoyed it
(whatever it is I did) in some way. Some people welcome death. Marianne was probably lonely as all hell… I think most chicks are when they don't have a proper man in their life, so maybe I did the crazy bitch a favor.
I wonder how the Stupid Fucking Sweater industry will do now. They might go out of business, I think, and that makes me laugh a little.
All the cats come running into the kitchen, climbing all over Marianne's body. What’s left of her body is slumped against the kitchen cabinets. They start licking the blood and I laugh at that too. I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, but it’s fuckin’ priceless.
T
hey never gave a shit about her. I bet they hated her as much as I did. I’m thinkin’ they just wanted food. She controlled the food, so they played their little game, kissing her ass and such. Sort of like me, when I tell people what they want to hear instead of what I’m really thinkin’ inside my sick head. These cats are nothing but schemin’ Devils, just looking for a bloody neck to lick on.
Suddenly, I feel real close to the cats.
I kind of respect them, even though I hate their fucking guts.
I go into the bedroom so I can take a nap.
The cats don't follow me, cause they're too busy nibblin’ on Marianne.
As I try to fall asleep, I keep going back and forth about the cats, wondering whether I'm going to exterminate 'em or not. I need to sleep on it. They don't seem t
oo rotten now that I seen the Devil inside them. I might even get used to the pissy smell if I stick around long enough.
Chapter Four
The snoopy bastard has been coming
around for a couple of days now, but I think the snow is getting too deep for him. I watch him struggle, trying to force his way up to the mail slot, tossing some inconsequential bullshit in-- ads for supermarkets that nobody could even get to anymore, coupons for one-toppin' pizzas, and bills from the state or the city or whoever the hell else wants to ram something painful up my asshole.
It would cause some suspicion if the mailman disappeared, but maybe not much longer. The world
is going to shit, one squeeze at a time, and a mailman could go missing anywhere in the goddamned arctic tundra outside. If there is one thing I'm sure of, it's this right here:
when the shit really hits the fan, people stop pretending to care about each other.
Sure, they put on a nice front. They smile and offer help
. Oh boo fuckin' hoo for you… let me lend you a hand. They just wanna go the fuck home though, ya hear? They wanna watch TV, see what their sports team is up to. They wanna play violent video games and bitch about the government. They wanna eat a hamburger, then jerk off into a sock or maybe even their wife's tuna can, if they're lucky enough to be married to a woman who puts out.
Zing.
Nobody wants to help you.
Got it?
Nobody's going to help you except your
own damn self. Yep, if you got a family they'll stick up for you real nice, but even they'll screw you over the first chance they get. You're all alone, buddy, just like me. Except that I have the balls to admit it.
He's knocking at the door now. The motherfucker wants something. I wait for
a short while, hoping that he'll go away but he keeps on knocking, louder and louder each time. Cocksucker! The United States Postal service can lick my taint.
"Good afternoon, sir," I say, smiling at the man that stands before me.
Gusts of wind push some flurries of snow through the door, makin’ me shiver a little.
The mailman nods, looking cold and a little pissed off.
He's got a mustache, a thick black one that looks like he takes good care of it. I can respect a clean lookin' mustache, but it doesn't quite work on this dope's face. His big round eyeballs look like he's got about four workin' brain cells, and the fourth one is just about to sizzle out of business for good.
"Good afternoon. Didn't you hear me knocking?"
the man asks. The balls on him!
"Sorry, I had m'television turned up kinda loud
cause my hearin' isn't so good these days. I was watching an action movie, a real fun flick with that Bruce Willis fella." A fun flick. You hear me talkin’ like this? Your old pal Edgar is the best liar who ever lived.
The man look
s shocked at this revelation, and then I realize why. Stupid me.
"You have electricity in there?"
"Generator." Smooth as silk, motherfucker.
His face gets all twisty-like as he hands over a stack of envelopes. "Funny, Marianne never mentioned having a generator."
Because Marianne is a goddamned twit, that's why, Mr. Postal Dude. This shit better stop asking so many questions. That’s a dangerous thing to do, whether he knows it or not.
"
Well, that’s cause its brand new. Just put it in after the storm started up, before it got too nasty to drive. It's hummin’ around the back."
He puts his finger to his ear, as if he is listening for it. The bastard doesn't believe me. Sure, I'm a liar, but I'm a damned good one.
I try not to look offended, even though I am.
"Can't hear it, what with all the wind
," I say. He smiles at me, finally giving up on his interrogation. For now, at least.
"
The name's Skipper," he says, reaching his hand out to shake mine. I take it. His hand feels like a wet fish, all floppy and slick and cold as hell. The snow is still gusting in from outside, and I begin to wonder how long all these fuckin’ formalities will take. It’s blinding out there. I hope he doesn’t plan on staying, cause he certainly ain’t invited to.
Skipper.
What the hell kind of name is that? Obviously a nickname, but who the fuck would pick that for a nickname? If I knew a kid named Skipper when I was a kid, I probably would have put snakes in his locker. Probably would have ripped him a new one.
"
They call me Edgar," I say as I pull my hand away from the flippy-floppy mackerel. "Much obliged," I say, holding up the mail he is delivered to me and pretending to look through it as if it is very important to me. It's all about living the lie.
Skipper says, “I came knocking because
I just wanted to let you all know that we won't be delivering any more mail until after the storm ends. It's going on a couple weeks now. We just can't do it any longer."
"No problem. It must be a pretty rough job with all this weather."
Skipper nods, grinning as he says, "You don't know the half of it. I used to do my route in about five hours. Now it takes me eleven. Only reason you all are still getting mail is because we got ourselves a couple of snowmobiles."
"I'm surprised anybody is even sending mail anymore."
Suburbia, I think to myself, is the only place in the world where anybody actually gives a shit about the mail. There ain’t nothin’ good about the mail. It’s another trap we set for ourselves, makin’ it so we can’t leave. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Fuck that noise.
"I expect it to stop altogether pretty soon. Storm's gonna end
eventually, like all these storms do, but it's coming in at a slow trickle now. Marianne used to get twenty or so things a day, mostly those cat magazines and advertisements, but now she's only getting like two or three."
Oh, what a loyal fucking mailman. He even knows all his customers by name, even knows how much mail they get. He's a creep, that's what he is.
He’s a creep and he’s probably got the hots for Marianne. I sort of want to tell him what I did to her, to see if he starts cryin’ like a little girl.
"Speaking of," he says, and I already know what he's gonna drop on me next
, "is Marianne home? If you don't mind, I'd like to tell her in person that we won't be delivering for a bit. I know she'll be really upset about it, what with all the stuff she gets. She gets real excited when her magazines come, I know she looks forward to them all month."
"
Marianne's in the shower."
Fuck
, fuck, fuck. I bite my tongue. I swear to my savior the lord Jesus Christ that I'm a way better liar than this. I'm just having an off day. All these mangy cats are gettin' my allergies in a tizzy and makin' me think funny thoughts. This ain't typical, ya’ hear?
Then he asks the question that I know is coming next.
"You guys have
hot water
still?"
“
No.” But really, I should have said yes. “Yes,” I say. He’s got me scramblin’ and I hate that feeling.
Skipper looks mighty confused. “All the pipes in my house are frozen. It must be the elect
ric you get from the generator, right? Shouldn’t you be conserving though?”
“I need to--,” I start to say, but then the Skipper interrupts me.
His moustache sort of dances as he makes a mean looking face. “Let me talk to Marianne,” he says, “right now.”
He fancies himself a tough guy. Isn’t that special?
“Go away before this gets ugly,” I say.
Skipper takes a step forward, getting in my face. “Where is it you come from? Marianne never mentioned having a boyfriend. I would know. I come to this house every day, so I would know if she ha
d a boyfriend.” The tone in Skipper’s voice makes it sound like he may be a bit on the jealous side, like he wants to be pokin’ on Marianne’s tuna can. He’s a suspicious little shit, but he also hates my guts for gettin’ so close to Marianne.
“Back up, little
fella,” I say. He’s not really little. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than yours truly. That don’t mean I can’t talk to him like a little man. A fella with a moustache doesn’t stand a chance against a wanderin’ man, unless he is a wanderin’ man himself. Most wanderin’ men don’t wear moustaches anyway. Cause people are less likely to pick you up if you’re not clean shaven.
“Marianne?” Skipper calls out now, pushing past me into the mud room.
“You in there, Marianne?” I gotta admit, I’m pretty shocked at how bold this shit-for-brains is.
I grab him by the color of his dark blue parka, pushin’ him up against the wall. “I told you to get the fuck out of my house.”
“It isn’t your house. It’s Marianne’s.”
“It used to be Marianne’s, but now it belongs to me. Ya’ hear?”
“You’re a liar,” he says, bearing his teeth at me. He looks like he wants to take a swing at me. I sort of hope he does, cause I’ve been bored as all hell since Marianne got her head lopped off. I’ve been itchin’ for something to break up the day. “Where is she?” he asks again, way more insistent.
The little fucker is asking, so I’m much obliged.
“Follow me,” I say, walking through the door, waving for him to join me. He rights himself, pulling on his clothes as I take my hands off him. He readjusts himself, hopin’ he can get back some of his dignity. When he sees what I’m about to show him, he’ll know that he’s done messed with the wrong motherfucker. “I’ll show you her. You’ll love this, Skippy.”
He follows behind me and I can tell he’s hesitatin’, real slow like.
I can almost
hear
his expression. I’ve seen this kind of expression before. He isn’t believin’ this shit, not at all. In all his life, he ain’t never thought he’d see something like this. Marianne—all strewn about like confetti after a Fourth of July parade. What’s left of her is only the bits and pieces that the kitty cat’s ain’t lapped up. Her sweater is still there, but the cats have been pawing at it, untangling the threads. They’re usin’ her body like a scratchin’ board when we come into the kitchen.
I can hear him gasp. I can hear him thinking terrible thoughts about me. I can hear his heart deflating because he definitely had a crush on this old broad. I can hear him falling to pieces. I can hear him wondering to himself how he can go on. I can hear him pulling something out of his jacket, almost instinctively. I can hear him fidgeting with the device—probably some pepper spray. Mailmen always carry pepper spray, so they can defend themselves from wild dogs when they’re out on their route.
In response, I turn and I bark at him. I sound just like a German Shepherd, mostly cause I used to have one when I was little, and I learned from listenin’ to it all the time. I used to get it riled up by whippin’ on it with my uncle’s belt, and it would snap at me like it was fixin’ to destroy little Edgar. That dog took hell from me, but he gave it right back. Nearly took off my finger one time, just about ripped me in half if the neighbor hadn’t put him down with a shotgun shell to the back of the scalp.
Skipper
jumps (or should I say: skips?
Zing.
) right out of his shaky skin, pushing himself back against the kitchen cabinets as if he’s falling to pieces right in front of me. He’s holding up the pepper spray (in a teenie weenie pink can) at me, mumbling something about how I better leave him alone.
“You never had your chance, did you?” I ask him. I hunch down low so that I look like some sort of ghoulie motherfucker. If you get your shoulders hunched just right and get that spacey look in your eyes, you can make just about anybody shit their pants. I’ve seen plenty of ankle-splatter in my days, just by putting on a creep show for them. Wish you could see the face that Skipper is making at me, lookin’ like he’s staring down the thing from his closet from back when he was a little boy, way before he wore that stupid fuckin’ mustache he’s got now.
“Get away,” he says, his voice so shaky it could carve a Thanksgivin’ turkey.
“Never had your chance to fuck her, did ya’? I bet she was real good, too. Or maybe I know firsthand?” I ask him. Of course, I wouldn’t have touched The Sweater Queen with a
ten-foot pole, no matter how hard she tried, or how drunk I got. But he don’t know that. He don’t know much other than what he sees in Marianne’s kitchen, that bein’ her body all slathered all over the place like she got eaten by wolves. “Maybe I know. Maybe I know what those sweet titties smelled like. Maybe I even sniffed her bush. You want the details, Skipper-oo? You wanna know what you missed out on?”
I can smell his piss. He’s wettin’ himself. I can’t help but laugh at this, and I throw my back and shoulders into the laugh as well, writhin’ around like a goddamned demon. Gonna make him piss himself all the way to his grave. Gonna make him—
FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!
“You cocksucker!” I shout, grabbing at my eyeballs, trying to dig into them with my fingernails, wishing I could get the hot pain out of them. I didn’t think the shithead would actually use the mace. He looked like the type that was all threats, no follow-up. How wrong I was about Skipper-oo and his pretty mustache. Maybe he had a little ball sack after all. When you get them pissin’ their pants, then you usually have them by the short and curlies. “I’m gonna kill you, cocksucker!”