Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (25 page)

I imagine him lying face down, drowned in the bathtub, my plans for the holidays destroyed.

Where is that damned light switch?

My fingers scurry across the wall, frantic as Freddy Krueger’s claw. I’m caught in a nightmare. I find the switch and flick it on. Light spills onto the spick-and-span floor, the spotless walls. The tub—immaculate and empty.

I stare at the white porcelain.

No trace of blood.

No trace of Marcus.

How did he escape?

A white bath towel hangs, neatly folded, on the rack. No stains. Not even a wrinkle.

How did he get out of here?

The room was locked and has no window.

HE HAD HELP.

A secret lover.

Maybe his receptionist?

I pace my apartment, trying to think, but my brain isn’t functioning. My thoughts are jumbled, disconnected. My system is going down.

Time for a reality check.

I open the refrigerator, search for the Chia jar. I push aside a bottle of balsamic vinegar, remove a carton of almond milk, and find the jar behind the ketchup. It’s filled with Chia seeds. No penises. The jar drops from my hands and seeds scatter across the floor. I’m trembling, feel sick to my stomach.

Who did this?

The super has a key. Maybe she let herself in, stole my penises, absconded with Marcus, who knows what else?

KRISTA
pops into my head.

She knows I’ve been seeing Marcus. She’s the only one I told. Obviously she’s got a
thing
for him and she’s jealous. That’s why she’s been stalking me, milking me for information.

I pull out my cell phone. Scroll through my contacts. Hit her number.

It rings twice, then she picks up.

“Hi, Sadie.”

“Hello, bitch.”

“Sadie?”

“Is he there?”

“Who is this?”

“What have you done with him?”

“Who?”

“Marcus.”

“Sadie, what are you talking about?”

“Give him back.”

I yell into the phone cursing Krista, even after she’s clicked off. Her dumb act doesn’t fool me. Suddenly it all makes sense—the constant texts, the invitations, the way she’s manipulated me.

I run down the hall to the spare room, unlock the freezer, throw open the lid.

My Tupperware and butcher paper packages have vanished.
Lean Cuisines
fill every bin. I don’t eat frozen meals. They’re full of salt and preservatives.

I’ve been burglarized!

Or is it burgled?

I want to scream.

I grab my phone, ready to dial 911, prepared to summon Gorski and Redbear. But what will I report? Krista stole my boyfriend, removed him from the bathtub.
No officers, he couldn’t take off on his own, because I hacked his legs off with a chainsaw.
On top of that, I’m missing several penises, the rump of a young man, and a thigh I planned to eat for Christmas.

Who will believe me?

My phone vibrates. I glance at the screen, expecting to see Krista’s name, but it’s my father.

“What? I just got home from work. It’s late.”

I can barely understand him.

“If you don’t like the thong, return it. They give you a shipping label.”

While he rambles on about
Victoria’s Secret
, I run a bubble bath.

“Why won’t they take it back?”

I pass my hand under the faucet, testing the water’s temperature.

“You wore it? For an entire week?”

I pull a fresh towel out of the linen closet.

“No. Don’t send me your used underpants for Christmas. Why don’t you try shopping at a men’s store?”

I brew a cup of Kava tea and wash down a few Xanax while my father rants about the lack of customer service, the US Postal Service, the poor selection of men’s underwear.

I head back to the bathroom.

Stare into the mirror.

“I’ve gotta go, Daddy.”

I study my reflection, stunned to see a gold Saint Christopher medallion hanging from my neck.

Having rid myself of my father, I do the sensible thing: slide into the bubble bath and buff the muffin with a carrot (organic).

Many people are afraid of brains, but I don’t shy away from them. Generally, you’ll want to serve one brain per person, depending on the size, of course. Calf brains are traditional. Personally, I find the donor’s level of intelligence determines the brain’s flavor, and calves are not particularly smart. Administering an IQ test may be difficult, so you’ll have to use your judgment when selecting a brain to suit your taste.

Ingredients:

1 brain per person

1 quart cold water

1 tablespoon vinegar

Salt and pepper

All purpose flour

2 eggs

½ cup milk

1 cup panko breadcrumbs

5 cloves garlic, minced

½ cup parsley, chopped

2 anchovies, minced

1 teaspoon capers, chopped

½ lemon

1 stick unsalted butter

Preparation
:

Soak the brains in a quart of cold water with tablespoon of vinegar for about three hours. Using your fingernails, pick the blood vessels and film off the brains. Soak brains in lukewarm water to remove any traces of blood. To firm them up again, blanch in water with a splash of vinegar. Bring a 2-quart pot of water to simmer, add several cloves of garlic, bay leaf, sprigs of parsley and other fresh herbs, simmer 15 minutes. Gently lower brains into water, for about 6 minutes. Do not boil. Remove to a rack to drain. Season with salt and pepper. When the brains have cooled, if you prefer bite-sized pieces, pull the lobes apart. Skip this step if you prefer them whole.

Prepare 3 bowls: flour, egg whisked with milk, breadcrumbs. Dip brains into each bowl.

Meanwhile melt ½ stick butter in a skillet on medium-high heat. When the butter is frothy, add the brains and sauté until golden and crisp, basting constantly.

Remove to paper towels and keep warm.

In another skillet, melt the other ½ stick of butter. Add minced garlic, parsley, anchovy. Sauté quickly and remove from heat. Add capers and squeeze lemon juice to taste.

Serve brains with the sauce poured over them.

I like to serve this dish with a side of glazed carrots sprinkled with parsley.

A
crack of thunder wakes me.

I spit out a mouthful of water.

The room is dark. The bath is cold. I might have drowned.

Shivering, I stand, reach blindly for a towel.

Between claps of thunder, I hear pounding—someone’s at the front door, demanding entry.

Wrapping myself in the towel, I search for the light switch. Flick it, but nothing happens. The electricity must be out.

I let myself into the hall.

A lightning flash illuminates my living room, and then it’s dark.

The pounding on the door gets louder, more insistent.

“Coming!”

Who the hell would visit now, in the middle of a storm?

I walk past the kitchen, feel my way along the couch, trip over a soggy sneaker.

By the time I reach the door, the pounding overrides the thunder.

Peering through the peephole, I can’t see a damned thing.

Then I get this creepy feeling.

“Marcus, is that you?”

And then a flashlight blinds me.

“Officers Gorski and Redbear. Open up, Mrs. Bardo.”

My fingers freeze on the lock.

“Let us in. Your friend, Krista, called us.”

It’s too late to pretend that I’m not here.

Too late to claim that I haven’t killed Marcus.

Too late to pretend that I haven’t disposed of his body—or what remained of it.

I tell myself that everything will be okay. I’ve scrubbed the place down, cleaned it so thoroughly that I thoroughly fooled myself. They won’t find any evidence.

Or will they?

I’ve been watching
Catching Killers,
the Smithsonian’s show about forensics, and these days, one dead cell can provide enough DNA to put me away for life. And Colorado has the death penalty. If I’m going to die, I may as well go out in blaze of gory.

“Open up, or we’ll have to force the lock.”

Backing away from the door, I let my towel fall to the floor. I’ll go out like I came in, naked and alone.

When the pounding starts again, I hear the crack of wood. The cops must have a battering ram. The door strains at its hinges, but I don’t stick around to see how long it will hold up.

I run toward the hallway, stumbling over the sneakers. Make it to my bedroom and grope along the wall, until I reach the closet. With trembling hands I manage to part the doors, kick shoes out of my way, searching for the chainsaw. The teeth bite my hand, but I ignore the pain and clutch the handle. Of course, the saw is cold, but it’s got fuel. Even in the dark, I find the
on
switch easily, activate the choke, and pull the starter rope. It sputters. Dies.

Out front, I hear what sounds like an explosion.

The cops have made it in.

“Mrs. Bardo?”

I pull the starter rope again, and this time it fires.

Flashlights dance along the hall, then poke their beams into my room, strobe on my naked body.

I rev the chainsaw, turn toward the cops.

“Put that down, Mrs. Bardo. What are you doing?”

“I need firewood.”

“Put the chainsaw down, and nothing will happen.”

I recognize Gorski’s voice, charge toward it, the chainsaw extended.

I’m expecting to hit bodies, expecting to carve through flesh, as easy as carving a Thanksgiving turkey.

But I meet no resistance.

I plunge through the hallway, as the chainsaw gnashes its teeth into the wall. The resulting friction slows me down, throws me off balance.

I hear Gorski yelling, Redbear calling for backup, as I spin through the bathroom’s doorway, like a whirling dervish gone berserk—propelled by the weight and power of the chainsaw.

Crashing into the tub, I tumble in, and the chainsaw follows.

“OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!!!”

C
hop, chop, chop.

Shuck, shuck, shuck.

Wrap, wrap, wrap.

I’m trying not to think.

Thinking slows me down.

Just following the programming.

If I don’t think, I can process five cases of corn per hour. That’s 240 ears, if there’s no mold or worms, forty-eight 5-packs or eighty 3-packs. The supermarket charges $2.99 per 5-pack, so that’s a total of $1,495.00; $1.99 per 3-pack equals $1592.00. By my calculations, better profit than they’d get out of robot—

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

3-packs = greater profit.

STOP!

Thinking is a habit that I’m trying to break. An addiction.

Anyway, I no longer work at the supermarket.

Chop, chop, chop.

Shuck, shuck, shuck.

Wrap, wrap, wrap.

This is the job they’ve given me, while I wait for my trial.

Krista’s husband is my lawyer. For my defense, he’s claiming mental incompetence—that’s fancy for crazy.

But, between you and me, I’m plenty competent. They’re even making me new legs, and I’m holding out for the best (thanks to good insurance): prosthetic calves using carbon nanotubes and neural net technology. My legs will be lighter than titanium and stronger than steel, making me a real Bionic Woman.

Chop, chop, chop.

Really, there’s no chopping—I’m not allowed to work with knives.

But they let me shuck.

I’m reading this book,
Chop Wood, Carry Water: A Guide to Finding Spiritual Fulfillment
, about Zen meditation. There’s a Zen proverb: “Before Enlightenment chop wood, carry water. After Enlightenment chop wood, carry water.”

I view shucking corn as meditation.

Kill.

I don’t try to change my thoughts; I watch them.

Kill, kill, kill.

Like clouds passing through a clear blue sky.

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.

A Colorado autumn sky.

Corn season is almost over.

The End

1.
     Is there anyone in your life that you’d like to see dead? If so, why? Are there any similarities between that person and Justus? What would be your preferred method of death? Would you consider murder? How would you dispose of the body? Are you seeing a psychiatrist?

2.
     Have you ever worked with a robot? Do you feel threatened by robots? If so, why? If not, what do you like about robots? Would you date a robot? Consider marriage? Does the idea of downloading your brain into a robot turn you on?

3.
     Talk about Sadie’s various methods of murder. Which one most appeals to you? Which would you avoid? Would you like Sadie to be your neighbor? Have you ever had a neighbor like Sadie? Are you a neighbor like Sadie?

4.
     Do you plan to try any of Sadie’s recipes? Would you follow the directions or make modifications? What modifications will you make? Have you considered a potluck for the next book club meeting?

5.
     Has reading the book affected how you feel about shopping at supermarkets? Do you bring your own bags? Insist on using paper? Prefer plastic? How do you feel about salmonella? E coli? Falling into a trash compactor?

6.
     Talk about plot. How would your plotting of murder differ from Sadie’s? What mistakes did she make? How might she improve her methods? Do you think she’s sex crazed or are her appetites fairly normal? And what’s with eating her psychiatrist—is that symbolic or is she saving on groceries?

7.
     Compare this book to others you have read. Can you imagine Sadie in a book by Jane Austen? How do you think Mr. Darcy would react to Sadie? And how do you think Sadie would respond to Mr. Darcy? If Mr. Darcy came to dinner, what would Sadie serve?

8.
     Finally, did this book make you think? Did you learn anything? Do you feel sorry for Sadie? Would you like to see more of her? Do you want to meet Sadie’s dad? If so, please send your phone number and Sadie will have him call you.