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!”
I can’t see him, what with Satan rubbing his fiery genitals into my eyes, but I can sure hear him. He moves across the kitchen. If he escapes, then my whole settlin’ in and settlin’ up plan might get botched. “Stay still,” I warn, rubbing at my eyes. I can feel drool coming from the pockets of my lips, pooling on my chin and chest. Long snots dangle from my nose, ropy and thick. I wipe all of this mess away, wondering how crazy I must look. Sure, I was puttin’ on the crazy-pants act for the mailman, but now, it’s not an act. “Don’t move an inch, mailman. Skipper. Skippy. Skipper-oo.”
I lunge in the direction that I last hear him, grabbing on to the countertop instead. I hear a small clatter from my left and when I swing my arms out in that direction, I am greeted by one of Marianne’s cats. It scratches at me. I take a swing at it, boxing style, but I miss. It clips me with its claw again and I let loose a girly scream. “Fuckin’ cats. I’ll kill every last one of you fuckers once I can see again.”
Another noise, this one from right behind me. I spin, ready to beat the shit out of the mailman. That bastard sprayed me with a pink can of pepper spray. Ain’t nothin’ like feeling like a dainty little girl. I’m gonna kill this fucker, just like I shoulda the second he came into Marianne’s house. (myhousemyhousemyhouse!)
“I hear ya’,” I threaten, trying to smirk.
That’s when I feel it sink into me.
Motherfucker stabs me. Stabs me deep, too.
The howl that comes out my mouth is—well, it’s like nothin’ you ever heard before. I guarantee that shit. It’s like I was savin’ up my best scream for years and years, bottling it all up inside. And here it comes, a’roarin’ and a’rippin’ through the air. And you know what the real kicker is?
The fuckin’ mailman is laughing at me.
He has a mustache, he calls himself Skipper, and he delivers coupons to housewives.
And he’s laughing. At me.
Cocksucker.
I feel around for the knife. He left it behind when he made his move, which is probably just about the stupidest thing he could have done. It’s in all the way through my shoulder. I can feel it poking through the back of my jacket. “You should have gone for the heart or the throat, Skippy. Or even the balls,” I say, as I pull it free. It makes a strange noise that is almost like a pop. I’ve been stabbed before, but never like this. It hurts like a son of a bitch once the knife is free. I can feel pressure releasing from the seeping wound, but I don’t have time to cry over spilled blood. I got me a mailman to kill.
I hand the knife back and forth between my hands. It’s slick with my blood, but that only thrills me more and more. Jesus, baby, let me feel your love all over me. “Gonna kill me a mailman. Momma used to fuck the mailman, so I gots me a lotta issues to work through, ya’ heard?” At this statement, I hear the whoosh of the back door opening, and then shutting again.
He’s running. Coward just dealt me a blow to the eyes, and then stabbed me. Had me against the ropes—one more lethal shot and I’d be a dead man. Even with all them advantages, he gets to runnin’ just like a chicken-shit.
Feeling my way through the kitchen and then down the hallway, I open the door to the mudroom, stepping down carefully. I can remember where the door is, but it doesn’t come out real obvious to me. I feel along the wall (hooks, some hanging jackets, and some annoying fuckin’ windchime) until I finally find the doorknob. I open it on up. I feel the wind blasting through. I zip up my jacket nice and tight.
Some light is starting to force its way through my shut eyes. They are still burnin’ like you wouldn’t believe, but I can sort of see shadows through my eyelids now. It’s bright as hell outside, what with all the sun reflectin’ off the snow.
I go tromping out into the cold. I ain’t been outside in a few days, not since I first came to Marianne’s house. It’s colder than I remember. “Come on, Skippy!” I shout. I’m freezing my ass off, but it’s worth it to chase the pesky shit down.
He mentioned that he had a snowmobile, so if he gets on that thing I’m screwed. Royally screwed. I’ll never catch him on that, so I’ll have to be movin’ on again. A wanderin’ man knows when it’s time to turn tail and run off. If Skipper-oo gets away from me, then I don’t need any more sign than that. Sure, it’ll take a while for him to bring back somebody that gives a shit either way (those types of folks are in short supply I’m bettin’!), but I don’t take chances. The second ya’ stop takin’ chances, that’s when they nab you. Not that I ever been nabbed, but I’m not gonna get into the habit.