“Oh dear,” she repeats, wiping her hands on a dishrag. Looks a bit like she’s shakin’ now, sort of tremblin’ all over. She keeps cleaning her hands cause she’s so nervous. This gesture is the closest thing I have seen to her bathing herself like a proper human being. “Oh dear, you’re horrible.” She don’t sound like she’s all that convinced of that. Wishy washy as all hell.
“Wanna know where Cherry Pie is? I buried her in the snow. I drowned her in it, actually, right outside your bedroom window. She fought like a fuckin’ tiger and now she’s dead.” I’m not sure that the one I killed was actually Cherry Pie, it’s not like I checked her nametag, but it felt good to make Marianne upset, to break her down, just ‘cause I could.
“My precious kitties,” she says. I ain’t sure she actually even believes me. Maybe she’s in shock.
“Here’s the plan, Silly Sweaters. I’m gonna kill all these here cats, and if you get in my way, I’m gonna kill you too. Got that?” I pause, waitin’ on a response to the question but she don’t give one. “And while I’m puttin’ my boot to these here cats, I want you to clean this house up like you ought to have done a long time ago, if you even know how to do it. I want you to scrub out all the cat piss, from top to bottom. If I can smell one hint of it, I’ll cut you up into tiny pieces and flush you down the toilet. You hear me?”
“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.
They 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 too 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.