Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (19 page)

Riding the elevator down to the dungeon, I plan the menu. Perhaps an aphrodisiac. Oysters on the half shell with a squeeze of cunt juice for an appetizer? Asparagus spears, creamy avocado, and deviled eggs for the main course, served with a sauce of garlic, basil, and fresh come? Nipples dipped in chocolate for dessert…

I’m humming along to some disco ditty from the 1970s, feeling ecstatic, but my mood shifts when I enter the work area. Some guy I’ve never seen before is standing at the sink up front where Liam should be crisping vegetables. This guy is about 6 foot 5 and must weigh close to three hundred pounds. He’s wearing shorts and a plastic yellow apron, hosing down Romaine lettuce. Behind him, there’s a cart stacked with bins of broccoli, cilantro, parsley, and leeks.

“Where’s Liam?” I ask. “On vacation?”

“You could say that. He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Fired.”

The goliath plunges a head of lettuce into a vat of icy water.

I gasp, like I’m drowning.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Insubordination. Refused to use the intercom. They wrote him up.”

“Who?”

“Terri, I think.”

Just as I suspected.

Terri the Terrible.

This calls for action. Nothing short of revolution. Terri has nothing on Marie Antoinette. I grab the guillotine, stomp to my corner, no longer shivering and cold, but steaming. I slam an RPC of corn onto the stainless steel counter, preparing to decapitate.

Chop, chop, chop.

Shuck, shuck, shuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I want to kill someone.

I want to kill
a lot
of people.

Not only Terri the Terrible, but the Produce Manager who’s so busy scraping labels off the floor that he let Liam get fired, and that hulk washing lettuce nonchalantly. I want to kill the entire store, the entire corporation—an evil empire conspiring to control the food supply, force-feeding the population genetically engineered soy and corn designed to convert our DNA and transform us into robot slaves. They’re in bed with the government. It’s a worldwide conspiracy.

Pressure builds inside my head. My brain aches. I stop chopping, lean against the counter. Gray matter oozes from my ears, eyes, mouth, nostrils as my mind expands, pushing the boundaries of my skull until my head explodes. Neurons shoot threads of light through my consciousness linking me to a network so complex, so vast and powerful, by comparison the World Wide Web seems as archaic as television. Commands are dispatched directly to my cerebrum, reprogramming circuits, mutating neurotransmitters, rebuilding pathways and transforming me into an entity beyond human.

Chop, chop, chop.

They’re planning a grand event to coincide with Labor Day.

Chop, chop, chop.

A directive will be transmitted, initiating activation.

Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.

Surveillance must be vigilant.

Due to the remodel, management is on high alert, working in conjunction with government agencies. The FDA, CIA, FBI, and highly secretive CORN (Corporate Operatives Reordering Neuropathy). As the Grand Opening approaches, spies drop in unannounced to check on the store’s progress. The new guy washing lettuce is obviously an operative.

Sent to terminate subversives like Liam.

Like me.

I grab another crate of corn.

Chop, and chop, and f@#king chop.

Timing is everything.

Speaking of timing, scheduling the Grand Opening to coincide with Labor Day raises the temperature of my thermostat to boiling.
Labor
Day is supposed to be a holiday to honor laborers—not bosses. The store should be closed for business, throwing a picnic for its workers—at least providing a day of rest so our systems can be updated. Instead, while corporate big shots loll around the pool or lake, drinking and barbequing, employees will be slaving away in basements. No double-time, not even time-and-a-half. Holiday pay is obsolete. Ten years from now, if you’re not a robot slave, you won’t have a job.

I wonder how Liam’s going to pay his rent.

I’d like to give him a going away present. A robot. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple bot with a quiet personality. A bot who could do his job—stocking vegetables and fruit, removing the rotten stuff from bins, helping customers locate leeks and ginger root. A bot who wouldn’t mind speaking on the intercom and who’d bring the paycheck home to Liam.

I’ve been watching videos on YouTube. Robots are advancing fast. Some fly, some walk, others look like crabs or snakes. Amazon delivered my new waterproof, hot pink vibrator in less than fifteen minutes using a flying drone. (Good thing; I needed it for an emergency.) And the Japanese have developed humanoids that look like people. They plan to replace us ASAP. That’s where this store is heading. That’s what they want us to be. Humanoids who’ll work around the clock for nothing. No complaints. Humanoids who don’t demand insurance. Bots with an extended warranty, because this place will overload them until they short-circuit.

In a year or two, when robots take over, I’m not sure how I’ll earn a living. Maybe Corporate will give us an option to convert, to upload our brains into our replacements.

Maybe that’s already happened.

If a robot kills a human, who’s responsible? The owner? The manufacturer? The programmer?

Chop, chop, chop.

A robot can’t be held accountable.

Ragoût, a well-seasoned stew of meat and vegetables, is a French term, meaning “to revive the taste.” Who knows more about food and sex than the French? So, when you want to rev the action in your bedroom, try this tasty aphrodisiac. For a bigger bang, I’ve taken a traditional recipe and made a few choice substitutions.

Ingredients:

1 pound penises (I prefer fresh over frozen)

Freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons olive oil (extra virgin, natch)

5 tablespoons butter

1 pound mixed mushrooms, cleaned

1 medium shallot, chopped fine

½ teaspoon Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon Herbs d’ Provence

½ cup vermouth

½ cup heavy cream

Salt

Come (to taste)

Spritz of cunt juice

Preparation
:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Season whole penises with salt and pepper. Meanwhile heat a large, cast iron skillet on medium-high heat. When skillet is hot, add oil and heat till simmering, then add one tablespoon of butter. When butter has melted, add penises, sear, browning like sausages. Transfer skillet to the oven and roast for about ten minutes. Remove penises to a cutting board, tent with foil, and let meat rest for another ten minutes.

Meanwhile, cut the mushrooms into quarters. Heat 2 tablespoons butter in the skillet over medium-high heat, making sure butter doesn’t burn. Add the mushrooms, and increase heat to high. Let mushrooms brown, then turn. Add more butter if the pan seems dry. Add the shallot and sauté for about two minutes. Season with salt, pepper, mustard, and Herbs d’ Provence. Pull pan from heat, and add vermouth. Return pan to heat, and scrape any brown bits from bottom with a spoon. Add cream. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat.

Jerk off.

Stir in fresh come.

Slice penises crosswise, and arrange on a platter. Smother with mushrooms. Top with a spritz of cunt juice, and serve with a side of asparagus.

The curtains are drawn and evening light filters through the blood red fabric, casting a warm glow on my apartment. I’m streaming love songs on Pandora—mid-twentieth century stuff my dad might play by Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett—the kind of songs you’d hear in a classy restaurant.

I’m hoping the music will put Marcus in the mood.

Since my conversion, I have trouble relating to anything romantic. Truthfully, I no longer see the point of having sex with other people. It’s an act best executed alone, a measure taken for self-maintenance to ensure all circuits are performing. I jerked off earlier, while preparing dinner, and the outcome proved more than satisfactory. Truthfully, the idea of sex for procreation seems random and messy ... obsolete.

But, for the sake of scientific research, I’ve set the stage for a romantic evening. And I have a hunch fucking with Marcus will reawaken my libido.

Dinner’s simmering on the stove. I’ve popped open a bottle of Shiraz and thrown a tablecloth over the chest freezer, so the food can be served buffet style. I even lit candles. And I’ve sharpened all the knives.

I’m wearing the Black Widow jumpsuit I bought online, had it shipped overnight. It’s more provocative than anything I saw in the
Victoria’s Secret
catalogue, made of stretchable Pleather that hugs my curves. I washed and styled the red hair I took off that snotty insurance adjuster, and I’m wearing her scalp. (I tried to pin her hair into a chignon, but had to settle on a bun.) Knee high black boots add the finishing touch. I gaze into the mirror, turning one way, then another, admiring my transformation. Natalia Romanova, check me out. Sadie the Sadist is the newest and baddest Avenger.

I wish my left knee would stop shaking.

My system is on overload. I need to reboot, but there’s no time.

Marcus will be arriving soon.

To calm my nerves, I pop another Xanax and wash it down with wine. In some ways, I’m still human.

I head back to the living room, push aside the curtain and peer into the courtyard.

No sign of Marcus.

Two young mothers stand by the sandbox, talking, while their kids run around. I recognize the little girl from downstairs, one building over. She’s making a ruckus, driving her pink battery-operated car around the cement walkway. A boy on a bicycle cuts in front of her, and she honks her horn.

Marcus should be here any minute.

The pink car crashes into the bike. The boy, the bike, the car and girl careen off the walkway.

My doorbell rings.

How did Marcus sneak by me?

I run to the entryway, press my eye against the peephole. Despite the double dose of Xanax, my stomach is flip-flopping like a hooked trout. I wish that fish would hurry up and die. Gorski and Redbear stand on my doorstep. Gorski leans toward the door and his eyeball peers into mine.

I consider my options:

1.
   Pretend I’m not here and hope they go away—fat chance, since Gorski just gave me an eye exam.

2.
   Hurry to the bedroom, jump off the balcony and run—I’ll probably break a leg.

3.
   Open the door and find out what they want.

“Officers, what can I do for you?”

“Evening, Mrs. Bardo. Please open the door.”

Reluctantly, I undo the chain.

“Hope we’re not interrupting—”

Gorski’s gaze travels to my cleavage.

I zip up the jumpsuit.

“Actually, I’m expecting company.”

“This won’t take long.”

Dean Martin is singing “Volare,” the upbeat tune a sharp contrast to my current mood
.
I glance at the living room, making sure I haven’t forgotten to put something away like a bloody chainsaw. The officers step inside. The three of us stand cramped together in the small foyer while Dean croons about happy hearts and wings.

Redbear takes out his notepad and a pen. He’s switched to ink; this must be getting serious. His mustache has filled out since the last time I saw him. It reminds me of a caterpillar, one I’d like to squash.

Without asking, Gorski walks past me. His gaze travels around my apartment, taking in my recent changes. A new secondhand couch to replace the one Tory stained, a new lamp and side table—thanks to the Humane Society. Not to mention the paint job. His eyes land on the chest freezer, but I doubt he’s guessed its true identity, disguised with a tablecloth and candles.

“We’ve got a few follow-up questions, Mrs. Bardo.”

I nod.

“New furniture?”

“Secondhand.”

“What happened to the old stuff?”

“Don’t know. I left it by the dumpster.”

That’s a lie. Habitat for Humanity came by and picked it up.

“You met with the insurance adjuster, Tory Hartmann?”

“Yeah.” My eyes dart to Redbear, the ballpoint racing on his pad. What if he’s not really a police officer? What if he’s an operative of CORN? I choose my words carefully. “I thought she was satisfied with my answers and the case was closed.”

“It appears that way,” Gorski says.

“What do you mean,
appears
?”

“I mean, it appears that way according to a text she sent to her home office.”

“Isn’t that good enough?”

“Usually, in cases like this, there’s paperwork, forms filled out and filed, but due to the demise of Ms. Hartmann—”

“Demise?”

“Her death.” Gorski’s eyes bore into me.

The Xanax is kicking in, so my knee’s stopped shaking, but I feel like I’m underwater. The world around me ripples like a mirage—Gorski and Redbear, the new couch, the pictures on the wall, the pattern on the tablecloth. My face prickles with cold sweat. I know I’m breathing, my heart is pumping, but I feel disconnected from my body.

Redbear looks up from his pad.

Definitely an operative.

“You didn’t know Ms. Hartmann died? Been all over the news.”

“I don’t have cable.”

They both stare at me as if I’m screwy, glance at my Smart TV.

“I stream.”

Redbear scribbles frantically, and Gorski stares at me until I break the silence.

“I didn’t know she died,” I say. Then, thanks to all the true crime shows I’ve watched, I remember to sound concerned and ask, “When? How?”

“Car accident,” Gorski says. “Shortly after she spoke to you.”

My vision is breaking up, flashes of light shattering Gorski’s face so his mouth is where his nose should be. My synapses fire randomly, shooting sparks.

Condition red.

“Car drove off a cliff.” Redbear looks up from his pad. “You didn’t know that?”