Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (9 page)

“Sure …” He flashes me that goofy grin.

While he’s in the bathroom, I throw on a tee-shirt, skip the underpants. Then I slide open the bedroom closet where I keep my husband’s plumbing tools, bypass the cordless drill and chainsaw, choose the borescope—an endoscopic camera that connects to a handheld monitor. The camera’s flexible cable is designed to snake through pipes and dark, difficult to reach places. Ideal for my latest project. I power up the monitor, making sure the battery is charged. Satisfied, I head to the kitchen, grab a bottle of Fat Tire from the fridge, and lace it with Unisom.

Wiz Kalifa’s rap is pulsing through the Bluetooth speakers, and when I hear the toilet flush I blast the music.

The kid appears, a pink towel wrapped around his waist, and before he sees the borescope, I shove it into a cabinet between oatmeal and olive oil.

“Sit down. Relax.”

My place is small, and the kitchen opens to the living room. I hand him the Fat Tire and point at the couch by the fireplace.

He flops onto the cushioned seat, guzzles the beer, and sets the empty bottle on the plastic tarp.

“Still thirsty?” I hand him another beer.

“Aren’t you kind of old for rap music, Krista? I thought you’d be listening to New Age, or something, like my mom.”

“I’m not
that
old, asshole.”

I’m preparing the next beer, my back to him. I think three will do the trick.

“This town is friendly,” he says, his grin getting goofier. Attempting to stand, he wobbles and falls back onto the couch. He pats the seat. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Krista?” It sounds like,
r n u goina siddown, Krissa
?

For some reason, I answer using baby talk. “Woll onto your tum-tum, and me give you a weally good back wub.”

“I may fall asleep.” He yawns.

“No pwobwem. Stay owa tonight.”

I grab the borescope and the extra virgin olive oil, head to the living room and slip the borescope behind the couch so he can’t see it. I pour olive oil into my hands, rub my palms together to warm it, then knead his shoulders.

He moans with pleasure.

“Actually,” I say, “this will work better if you lie on the floor.”

He’s already half-unconscious. I help him from the couch, ease him onto the plastic tarp.

“Cushion?” I slip one under his head.

I enjoy running my oiled hands over his skin, think about sprinkling him with salt and pepper, a few cloves of minced garlic, a smidge of oregano, squeeze of lemon. Greek style. His body is perfect, young and tight. My finger traces the tattoo on his shoulder, an intricate design. I’ll have to get rid of that. I press my palms into the center of his back, hear the pop of his spine as tension releases.

“Feel good?”

“Uh-huh.”

He’s almost gone.

I move my hands lower, my fists kneading the taut muscles in his butt. I lube up with more oil, and my hands glide between his legs, parting his thighs so I have access to his balls. I nuzzle them from behind, delicately nibbling and licking. A pubic hair gets stuck between my teeth. I dislodge it with my fingernail, flick it onto the tarp.
Note to self: shave nuts
. The kid is utterly relaxed now. My forefinger slides between his cheeks, and when I enter him he barely winces. His sphincter tightens, loosens as I wiggle my well-oil finger, massaging him until he opens like a ripe peach. I climb on top of him, rub my clit against his back as I ride him. My pussy gushes and my clit distends, thighs clenching and unclenching as my body arches backward.

Ride ’em, cowgirl.

Who needs a cock? My clit is doing all the work, and I’m about to burst. Did you know women ejaculate? Fluid squirts out of these ducts around the urethra. That’s ducts, not ducks. Mine are squirting big time now. I come, and come, and come.

Almost forgot!

Movie time.

Between pussy juice and olive oil, his anus is slick and receptive; the borescope slips in easily. Thanks to the Unisom cocktails, he’s fast asleep and doesn’t flinch when I snake the camera deeper.

Who needs anatomy class?

The handheld monitor displays the shimmering walls of his lower intestine. It’s like a giant cavern. Spelunking fascinates me, so I snake the cable deeper.

The kid jerks, suddenly awake.

“What the—”

His hands claw at his butt, trying to rip out the cable. He can’t, because I’ve straddled him—ride ’em cowgirl style—gripping his cock from behind like it’s the horn of my saddle. I squeeze and he yelps. Grabbing at my thighs, his nails leave red marks. That
really
pisses me off.

I jump up, rush to the kitchen, pull a serrated bread knife from the butcher block. The kid is so wasted he doesn’t know which end is up. But I do. Mounting him again, I saw the knife across his wrist and slice into the skin. He’s a bucking bronco, but he can’t shake me. Blood spurts into my face, and I keep sawing. The kid is wide awake now, his body heaving. The speakers blast Metallica, but even “Kill Em All” doesn’t drown his screams. I’m a bit nervous about the neighbors, but it’s Friday night and they’ll assume I’m throwing a party. Blood spurts with each heartbeat, and he’s moaning like a wounded animal. The serrated knife takes forever to get through the wrist and the kid’s squirming doesn’t help. Then I remember the scissors I bought online, guaranteed to cut through anything, including metal.

I head back to the kitchen, thankful for the plastic tarps, since I’m tracking bloody footprints. When I hit the tiles, I skid. Frantically, I grab of roll of duck tape and the scissors. Is it duck tape or duct tape? If I’d thought this through, I would have kept the tape in the drawer of the side table by the couch.

Through the blast of music, I hear knocking.

I hurry to the door, wiping my hands on my tee-shirt (luckily it’s red), glance through the peephole and see the super.

I unlock the dead bolt, release the lock on the knob, but keep the chain in place. I open the door, just a crack, so she can’t see past the foyer.

“Hi,” I say, praying the kid won’t scream.

I’m a good tenant—hard working, pay my HOA on time—so the super’s polite.

“Sorry to bother you, Sadie, but it’s getting late and there’ve been complaints about the noise.”

“No problem.” I try to smile, but the corner of my mouth twitches, so does my eye. “I’m watching a thriller. I’ll turn the TV down.”

“You look kind of sick.”

“Working too much.”

I try to close the door, but she holds it open.

“See you tomorrow at the potluck?”

“Yeah. I’m making chili.”

“Great.” She points to my forehead. “I think you’ve got some on your face.

I slam the door, relock it. Sweat stings my eyes, and when I swipe my forehead, my hand comes away with blood.

The kid is out of it, but he’s managed to sit up. He’s weeping quietly, rocking back-and-forth while cradling his partially severed hand. When he sees me coming, he stumbles to his feet and tries to get past me, lurching toward the door. Raising the scissors, I collide into his naked body. As promised, the blades slice easily through flesh and muscle. The kid stumbles backward, his good hand holding his stomach, attempting to contain the purplish intestine, while his other hand moves frantically, dangling from his bleeding wrist. The tarp is slippery with body fluids and we both slide, falling onto the plastic. On the way down, he hits the corner of the coffee table. Blood gushes from his forehead. He tries to fight me off, but the light in his eyes is fading. He’s making a queer sound that can only be described as keening. I slap a strip of tape over his mouth. That shuts him up.

The last thing I need is another complaint from the neighbors.

I change the music to New Age. Synthesized sound streams through my apartment, helping me to focus.

Snip, snip, snip.

The scissors cut right through the wrist bones.

Make severing his balls a snap.

I make a mental note to post a 5-star review on Amazon.

Now that the kid’s hands are gone, his stumps flail around, still trying to remove the camera. Blood splatters all over the place—the curtains will have to be replaced. I’m glad the couch is stain-resistant manmade crap instead of real leather. Crimson sprays arc to the ceiling and red drips down the wall. I need to paint for real, and I think the kid is right. Forget
Bone
, I should go with something darker.

He’s making a weird wheezing noise and blood bubbles through the tape.

I run to the bedroom closet, pull out the power drill, hurry back to the living room, and let it rip. Transferring the drill to my right hand, for practice, I step onto the plastic.

“Okay, kid. Who’s boring now?”

Chili is a crowd pleaser, and it’s easy to make. You can use stew meat, ground meat, whatever meat you have lying around. I’ve been experimenting with making large batches and the recipe holds up—as long as you have room to store it!

You may not know this, but chili powder is a blend of spices. The most important ingredient is the pepper. Chili peppers range from mild to hellishly hot depending upon how much capsaicin they contain. Capsaicin is the chemical compound that activates receptors in human nerves endings, creating the sensation of heat. A pepper’s intensity is measured in Scoville heat units. An average green Bell measures 0, Habaneros score up to 350,000. Ghost peppers, also known as Bhut Jolokin, measure 1,000,000. For a long time Ghosts were considered the hottest chili pepper, but the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion surpasses the Ghost, measuring up to 2,000,000 Scoville units—the equivalent of 400 Jalapenos. To avoid blistering on your skin, Scorpions should not be handled without gloves. When ingested they have a torturous effect on the mouth, nose and intestinal tract. So choose your peppers wisely. Chances are you won’t find anything hotter than a Habanero at your local market.

Ingredients:

3 pounds meat, ground or cut into chunks (be careful not to include bits of bone and sinew—I’ve learned from experience)

2 large Vidalia onions, chopped

3 (or more) cloves of garlic, minced

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup chili powder (more if you like it spicy)

1 tablespoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon oregano

¼ teaspoon cayenne (Ghost or Scorpion)

1 large can tomatoes, chopped

1 can red kidney beans

1 can pinto beans

Salt to taste

Preparation:

Heat olive oil in a large pot. Add onions and garlic, sauté until translucent and slightly caramelized. Add meat and cook until brown. (The younger the meat, the more tender, so it requires less cooking time.) Drain fat. Add chili powder, cumin, oregano, cayenne, and cook until the spices are absorbed. Add tomatoes and simmer for about a half hour. When chili is done, drain beans and heat through. Salt to taste.

Optional: green bell peppers, corn (I used to use corn, now I don’t), if you want thicker chili, use a little flour mixed with water and add at the end.

Good thing I have today off. Clean up took most of the night, so I didn’t get much sleep. No matter how hard I scrub, I can’t remove all the stains in the living room. To hide them, I’ve rearranged pictures on the wall, but there’s a splatter of red I can’t reach on the ceiling. This morning I went out and bought several gallons of paint—washable, of course. I’m going with
Red Obsession
, dark red, and
Smoky Salmon
, muted pink. The colors are warm and feminine, plus the paint is dark enough to cover blood stains.

This afternoon the condominium complex is holding the annual potluck. I’ve got several large pots of chili simmering on the stove.

The kid saved me a lot of money. Like everything else, the cost of meat has skyrocketed. Butchering him took forever, because I didn’t want to rev the chainsaw after 11
PM
and risk more complaints from neighbors. I definitely need practice. First, I dragged the tarp into the bathroom, careful not to spill blood on the carpet. Talk about a workout, corpses weigh a lot. Lifting the body into the tub was too much for me, but after sawing it in half and trimming off the arms and legs, the job became manageable.

I’m not big on menudo and my freezer has limited space, so what I couldn’t use I wrapped in tarps, then stuffed into
Hefty
trash bags—doubled, of course. One by one, I carried the bags downstairs, checking for drips and spillage. At 4:00
AM
, I heard bears out by the dumpster, and that gave me a scare. I imagined hipbones and intestines strewn around the parking lot. But the bears failed to raid the dumpster, because the super keeps the trash cans secured. The garbage truck picks up early on Saturdays, so by now the bones and offal should be resting peacefully in the city landfill.

Looking around my apartment, last night seems surreal—almost like it never happened.

There’s no evidence of an altercation. The place appears normal, as long as you don’t look up. When I paint, I’ll need to borrow the super’s ladder to get the ceiling. I shoved the paint cans into the corner of the living room, along with brushes, a pan and roller, and a stack of new tarps. Home Depot had them on special, so I bought a few extra. I’m sure they’ll come in handy.

I don’t have time to paint today because, while the chili simmers, I’m updating my résumé. I applied online for my current position, so the supermarket has my work history. Starting with my most recent experience: three months as a maid at Hotel 8—that job sucked; people are pigs. Before that, almost two years selling candy at the local movie theater—excellent job; I got to watch movies for free, but the manager fired me (my résumé says I resigned) when I got caught blowing a customer in the back row. I also worked as a waitress at Denny’s, and I was
Bun Steamer
at Burger King. Steaming buns is boooring, and going too fast leads to bun pileups. I gave BK one week’s notice, couldn’t face doing two. Before that, back where I come from … I don’t want to think about.

The thing is, none of these jobs qualify me for Assistant Store Manager. So I need to embellish. Who doesn’t, right? How does this sound: Department Manager at Brother’s Grocery, a store that went out of business eight years ago in the town where I used to live. They can’t trace my history if the place doesn’t exist, right? But I’m not sure if
Department
Manager is impressive enough. I’ll change that to
Store
Manager, say I worked there for five years. That sounds good. I want to show I’m stable.