It’s just past eight in the morning as I leave my girlfriend’s unit. Ten minutes earlier she shook me awake, saying she’d slept in and that she had to go to uni real soon. Groggily, I got up and headed for the toilet. It’s housed within the most claustrophobic bathroom I’ve ever shat in; to make matters worse, the light switch is connected to the exhaust fan, so as soon as I flick it on, I’m subject to a low-pitched mechanical whining. Just what I need when I’m trying to shit in peace!
I get most turds out, but not all. There’s no time to hang around waiting for round two, however, so I wipe, wash hands, and head for the door. We kiss goodbye out on the pavement, she heading for the bus, while I head for home a couple of blocks down.
Just before we left, she returned to me a knife borrowed last week, to cut an orange while working her job at a bottle shop. Turns out it wasn’t a necessary loan, as she bought a mandarine. So once we part company, I cross the road and I realise I’m holding a knife outwards. Suggestively.
As I pass a couple of garbage truck operators rummaging through bins, I consider gutting the one who’s bent over head-first into a bin. Just a quick slice down his ribcage would be enough to put him off guard. I’d turn his wounded, screaming mass over and cut directly through the high-visibility vest, ignoring his intestines and going straight for the delicious kidneys.
I keep walking. The bloodlust passes. I rearrange the knife so that I hold its handle while the serrated blade rests against my inner wrist. Look up “concealed weapon” in any dictionary and you’d find a picture of me, at 8.15am in the morning, walking proud and daydreaming of cutting bitches.
A man appears before me on the footpath. He seems disadvantaged in terms of his stature and weight. The dude looks severely undernourished; the width of his calves are comparable to my forearms. Yet, observing his hunched-over shuffle, I consider that he might be homeless. He shoulders a bag that could contain his life’s possessions.
This one would be piss-easy. The guy seems so far down on his luck already that he’d welcome my maniacal thrusts into his chestal region. He’d forego the drama usually associated with cold-blooded murder – howls of pain, screams of protest, cries for help – and look up into my eyes, silently thanking me for ending his aimless journey across earth’s surface. A few good jabs later, I’d remove the knife from his heart, wipe it on his jacket and continue walking. Given how little people care for the plight of the homeless, I imagine his body would stay there for weeks until devoured by the local possum population. Suited businessmen on the way to work would step over his worthless body while on the phone to their slutty call-girls, barely acknowledging this man’s once-existence.
The daydream’s over by the time I’m standing outside my house. I press the electronic device that controls my garage door. A couple of middle-aged women standing nearby make surprised noises. I think they’re new to my building. I’ve never really made the effort to get to know my neighbours.
One of the women – the plumper, less attractive one – says something about how their garage door isn’t connected to an electronic opener. Whatever. Me, all I’m thinking about his heading upstairs and taking care of defecation 2.0. She asks to take a quick look inside my garage to compare to hers. Again – whatever.
She steps inside my garage, peering up at the ceiling. In that moment, I realise what I must do. I must remove her throat. In one foul swoop, I disconceal the blade and introduce it to the women’s sizeable windpipe. From this distance, I can see how heavily made-up she is, in an effort to cover her unattractive, ageing physical features. As I cut through the trachea, I’m ignoring her friend’s screaming and thinking about how much time she wasted this morning applying chemicals and colours to her face, only to be murdered a few metres away from where she sleeps.
She’s stopped struggling by now, as I reach the front of her neck. Rivers of blood run across my garage floor out into the common area, yet strangely, I’m completely untouched by the red liquid. Man, my housemates are not going to be happy with this mess. Or the dead fat woman. I press the button that closes the garage door, and calmly head for the toilet to evacuate my bowels for the second time in ten minutes.
You know what’s fucked up? She was on my property, and since I can afford a hot-shot lawyer, he successfully argues that my heinous act was in self-defense. We pay off the only witness, the fatty’s best friend of 25 years; I end up boning her upstairs, while her friend lies dead as fuck on my garage floor. Good times.
Ominous Cesspool 