One Last Hunt Pt. 02

Him

Just because I'm not going to kill Eileen doesn't mean I'm going to call her. Besides, with all this desert dust clouding my judgment, I decide it's time for a vacation. I book a first-class flight to Minneapolis and tell my parents I'm on my way. Though personal matters can wait until my return, one piece of business must be addressed. I call Mary Wolff and tell her our hunting expedition is delayed indefinitely. My excuse? I have to attend my cousin's wedding in some backwoods town called Bird Island. This isn't a lie, as my cousin is actually getting married in the aforementioned Southeastern Minnesota hamlet, though I had no plans on showing my face until recently. Nonetheless, the days away will make Mary's little heart yearn. By the time I come back, she'll practically be begging for my shovel.

Autumn foliage rushes by on the drive to my parents' house; the dying trees are a picture of inspiration. As always, the red ones are my favorite. My mother and I engage in small talk while my father naps in the backseat. It's just a matter of minutes before we pull into the driveway of my childhood home.

The prodigal son's return causes quite the stir. I'm greeted by a couple cases of Killian's Irish Red. This quickly turns into a shitshow. Decapitated beer bottles are strewn about the kitchen, and there are five of us huddled around the Trivial Pursuit board. My mother and I have a three-pie lead over my two brothers. While my mother excels at entertainment and geography, I prefer history and sports, both of which are stained in a tradition of bloodshed. My father doesn't play, instead observing dreamily with an almost-empty bottle in one hand and a joint in the other.

Amidst the festivities, someone asks how my job is going. Even with a brain heavily impaired by alcohol, I am able to keep my tongue from running too loose. The well-rehearsed synopsis never hints at the more sinister side of my life's calling. There's nobody I trust my dark secrets with, not even family. I allow no slippage, even display a smooth gold coin I purchased to pass off as my own discovery.

"Interesting," my mother says. In Minnesotan, "interesting" is a euphemism for "I don't care." I'm more than happy to move on. The focus shifts and the night fades into a drunken haze. It's good to be home.

Her

There is a farmhouse lost in the cornfields of some podunk Nebraska town. I take a pit stop just a couple miles out at Stumpy's Diner. Of course, it's not Stumpy's anymore. Now it's QuikTrip, the perfect spot to procure a homecoming gift for my mother. Picking through the candy aisle, I settle on a Caramelo. Chocolate is my mother's only vice; I must have inherited all mine from my father.

"My little Leelee!" my mother squeals, suffocating me in a bear hug. She's into her early 70s now, but we could be sisters. If I'm being honest, she's probably more fit. "I'm so happy you're here," she says, releasing me and judging the candy bar. "Oh, they didn't have a king size?"

We exchange pleasantries as she leads me to my room, but I haven't unpacked a pair of socks before she gets to the point: "What do you need?"

"Come on, mom," I say.

"Don't 'Come on, mom' me. You only visit when you need something. Not that I'm complaining."

I don't want to make it a thing. "I just need some advice."

"All right. Let's get some air and talk it over." I know exactly what "get some air" means. Within 10 minutes, we're watching a flock of Rhode Island Reds peck and strut on the other side of a screened chicken run. "What's his name?" my mother asks.

"There's two," I say.

"Two? I may get a grandkid out of you yet."

"There is presently a small chance of that." I gather the disappointment in my mother's wrinkles. "Though I doubt he'd stick around to raise the kid considering I haven't heard from him in three weeks."

"Charming. He has unprotected sex with you and then runs away. I can't wait for bachelor number two."

"It's more than that," I say, observing a handsome cockerel eating alone. "He's mysterious, confident, a loner. And there's something else I can't explain."

My mother nearly rolls her eyes out of her skull. "I seem to recall a mysterious, confident loner from your past. Remind me how that went."

"I get the feeling you'll like the second guy more."

"You haven't uttered a word on his behalf and already I prefer him exponentially."

"He's more... mature. A surgeon. Rich, big muscles, square jaw. You know."

"I'm failing to see the dilemma." My mother is watching a rooster too, only this one is older and more sociable. Presently, he's parading for a group of hens. "Considering your track record with men, I think you should try something new." She takes a bite of Caramelo. "One of them has to go." She's not talking about men anymore. Or maybe she is. "Two roosters to six hens is too many."

I already know the two players. "How old's that one in the corner?"

"Sixteen weeks. Optimal time for slaughter. The meat will be tender and flavorful. Plus, he doesn't seem to get along with the others. Bit of a loner."

"And that one?"

"Three years. Maybe a little past his prime, but he's been the primary breeder for as long as I can remember. Hens can't get enough of that cock. And he won't be very good eating; old meat is tough and gamey."

I unlatch the gate and step inside. The loner chicken regards me with complete indifference, focusing instead on a paltry pile of feed. Alternately, the alpha rooster puffs out his chest and sizes me up with piercing yellow eyes. I make my choice immediately. You've fucked your last hen, casanova.

I hand the gyrating bird to my mother, and she soothes it with full-body plumage strokes. "Same as always," I say. "You hold the feet and wings, and I take off the head." My mother, firmly grasping the rooster, sets it on an oak stump. "Maybe you're right," I say, raising a hatchet above my head. "I should try something new." I bring down the ax.

Him

As much as I've enjoyed the family time, beer and board games cannot satiate a serial killer's thirst. The Killian's, while refreshing, is not my preferred red liquid. I need to see that deep crimson flow once more. I need it for my health. The dark circles under my eyes can attest to that. It's for this reason that I must go. My bags are packed before sunrise; I tiptoe through the shadows, careful not to make sound. A successful killer doesn't just make ghosts, he moves like one too.

My early-morning exit is interrupted by the flip of a light switch. "You plan on saying goodbye?" My mother studies the luggage stacked at my feet, then the made bed. I've committed dozens of murders without leaving a trace of evidence, confounding an entire state's law enforcement, but I can't slip a thing past my mother.

"I got an emergency call from work. I didn't want to wake you."

My mother approaches the bedside. "It must be some... thing very important for you to be taking off in the middle of the night."

"Yeah," I say, slinging a bag over my shoulder. I just want to get the hell out of here.

My mother has other plans: "Do you remember your first grade guinea pig?"

"That sounds vaguely familiar." I'm lying. I remember like it was yesterday. After several class guinea pigs disappeared, I became the prime suspect. And rightfully so. This is when I first realized I was different from the other kids. After overhearing the principal and my mother discuss child therapists, I knew I had to hide the coldness inside me. And so I became the official guinea pig caretaker of Mrs. Darth's class. A heaping bowl of pellets every day, a bottle of mineral water, perpetually fresh bedding. It was my first performance; I've been acting normal ever since.

"You took such good care of him." My mother looks at me with something that might be pride. "People always misjudge you at first, but your goodness shines through. Eventually, everyone sees who you really are."

I want to tell her how wrong she is, but all I can say is: "Thank you."

"This girl, she means a lot to you." My mother takes the teddy bear from my bed and traces the pink heart pillow with her finger. "I can see the longing in your eyes." I want to tell her how right she is, but that the longing is for something much more savage than love. "Go get her," she says, handing me the stuffed bear.

I take it. Oh, I will. Once I figure out who she is.

***

It doesn't take me long to figure out who she is. The opulent ski lodge in the Lutsen Mountains makes sure of that. Even before checking in, I see her in the parking lot, berating the valet over the number of coins in her BMW's cup holder. She ticks all the boxes: rich, cheap, old, and (maybe most importantly) completely insufferable. This makes it highly unlikely any heirs have bothered to stick around.

I intervene before the poor guy loses his job over 27 cents: "Is everything okay here?"

"And who the hell are you?" the old woman asks. "The manager of this dump?"

"Not exactly," I say.

The old woman eyes me up and down. "Then what are you doing here, numbnuts?"

Charming. "I just hate to see a refined woman being treated so unceremoniously."

"Who says I need your help?" She's undressing me in her mind.

I flash her with chemically whitened teeth. "I didn't mean to imply that. I just assumed you had grown tired of such boorish company."

"You're not wrong there," she says, repressing a smile. I could melt an iceberg.

"In that case, join me at the lobby restaurant for lunch? The reviews led me to believe it was adequate."

She locks her chicken wing with the crook of my arm, and I escort my surly lunch date to the onsite eatery. The entire meal consists of Agnes (of course that's her name) skewering all the ungrateful sons of bitches in her life. She only pauses the conversation to deliver a verbal bludgeoning upon the waiter. Apparently, she doesn't care for the food, the service, the atmosphere, or the restaurant's general existence in her solar system. For my part, I listen to the juicy details and leave a juicy tip for the poor waiter. When she thinks I'm not looking, Agnes lifts the 20 dollars from the tabletop. She is everything I'd ever want in a murder victim. Not a single hitch in this plan.

Unfortunately, the hitch-less murder suddenly has four hitches. Their names are Logan, Alona, Skye, and Willow. "These are my children and grandchildren," Agnes says with the warmness of a divorce hearing. With the same zest for life, she then announces: "I'm going to take a shit." And suddenly I'm alone with these four strangers.

Logan's first words to me are: "Why can't she just die already?" I search for any humor in his voice but detect only bitterness. He sits down next to me and orders a Jim Beam straight. "Little advice, pal," he says, his breath revealing it won't be his first drink. "Take those pretty blue eyes and get another old hag to sing Frank Sinatra."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Yeah, you do. Word to the wise: Run. The old bat likes to keep up appearances, but she's bleeding this family dry. Expensive ski resorts, luxury cars, closets full of old lady clothes. We'll be lucky to see a fraction of our father's inheritance at this rate. Not enough cheer for every cup, if you know what I mean." The waiter slams down a lowball and Logan slams it back. "We understand each other?"

Just then, Agnes reenters, causing Logan to choke on his whiskey. "Guess it was a false alarm," she says. Now she addresses me. "What do you say we hit the slopes?"

"Sure thing, doll," I say, following the blue-haired woman with a smirk.

Logan reaches out and subtly tries to rip off my arm. He whispers in my ear: "Do me a favor and push her off the ski lift. I'll make it worth your while."

I don't push her off the ski lift. In fact, I don't do much of anything. I'm so mesmerized by the diamonds dangling from her neck that I overlook the largest diamond of all: the black diamond. Ski tips teetering over the edge of the imposing hill, my knees clack together like a Newton's cradle. I moved to Arizona to escape the snow, but now it's insistent on remaining a part of my life.

"You sure you want to do this?" I ask Agnes. She adjusts her goggles, calls me a "pussy," and shoots down the slope like a senior Olympian. Well, I've come this far. Might as well keep following the money. Off I go.

All I remember is my world overturning twice and then a flashlight beam assaulting my eyes. The medic asks a series of questions that are beyond my cognitive abilities at this time. I wonder if this is how my victims feel. Through my hallucinatory haze, I could swear my neighbor Marty is amongst the crowd of concerned onlookers. I search for some kind of clarity.

Finally something clicks. "What's your name?" the medic asks.

I pause for a second. "Charles," I say. This is not my name.

"Charles, you have a concussion. You understand? Is there someone who can watch you? Make sure you don't fall asleep?"

Enter my savior. "I'll keep an eye on the little klutz," Agnes says. Such compassion. I'm lifted, wheeled, and delivered like a UPS package to what I assume is the most expensive cabin in the county. After the boys wrap me in silk sheets, they leave me alone with the old woman. Bedside, there is champagne on ice. Agnes takes a chunk of ice and presses it to my forehead before disappearing with the bottle.

Aside from affording me the opportunity to slip into a coma, this alone time gives me precious moments to plot my next move. I need to project strength despite my feeble condition. I need to make her the vulnerable one. I need her to fall for me. A few minutes later, amidst my pondering, it becomes clear I have already accomplished these things. Agnes strolls in wearing nothing but a robe.

She takes a swig of bubbly and says, "The doctors say I need to keep you up." Suddenly, the robe slips to the floor, revealing a repulsive mass of naked, wrinkly flesh.

"You certainly have me up," I say, swallowing a lump of vomit.

Oh, the things I do for murder.

Agnes bows at my pelvis, her entire body creaking as she slumps to her knees. "Let's see what you're working with," she says, unpeeling the sheets. I'm working with a completely flaccid penis, but Agnes doesn't mind, inhaling it like a bass would a limp earthworm. If I had a blunt object, I'd end this immediately, but my pathetic state permits only one option: sit back and take it. After several sips of water and the removal of her false teeth, I'm able to achieve the impossible, something resembling an erection. "Enough with the foreplay," Agnes says and climbs aboard my lap.

A grotesque oddity of science, the old girl is somehow moist enough for penetration. She places my hands on her saddlebags and leans forward, sandwiching my head between two droopy breasts. The hag rides cautiously, as if she could break a hip at any moment, all the while grunting like she's moving furniture. There's only one escape from this. I close my eyes and beg my imagination for any mental images to get me through this.

It's Eileen who comes. Instead of saddlebags, I'm now grasping a petite, milky pair of gyrating hips. Plump and lively tits bounce in my face, wrinkled udders no more. I can even smell her, Dove soap and lilacs. She rides gently, lovingly, her thin arms wrapped around my neck and her soft moans cooing in my ear. Each tender bounce gets me closer; the pressure is building like water against a dam. I feel the tingle inside first, before it crawls into my balls and explodes through my cock. The first spurt is an inch-long string of ejaculate, followed by one that triples in length, and then one that shoots a full foot. The fourth convulsion slings about half as much cum as the previous and the fifth less yet. But then the sixth, the glorious sixth, flies even longer than the third. The seventh, eighth, and ninth are all diminishments, culminating in the tenth shot, which is little more than seepage from the top. Though the volume varies, the passion of each blow is equally intense. I smother Eileen in my arms, open my eyes, and look upon her:

A puckered tortoise face. Agnes smacks her gums and declares, "That was fast."

Her

"It's so beautiful."

"Can you put my keys in my purse?"

We're in the no-service zone of the Sonoran Desert, the surgeon and I, watching the Arizona sunset in the front seat of my car. I guess most people would call this a romantic setting, a scene plucked directly from a Hollywood rom-com. Frankly, I'm just trying to get laid. The surgeon deposits the keys in my purse and retrieves something else: a 14.2-inch WKTL Raptor throwing knife.

"You bring your knives with you?" the surgeon asks with more than a hint of suspicion.

I shrug. "Never know when you're going to need the practice."

"Hope I'm not the target."

"Don't worry. That thing couldn't cut butter. Just the tip is sharp."

"Just the tip, huh?" the surgeon says, sliding the knife back inside with a dirtball expression. "I hope we go deeper than that."

His frat boy pickup routine has me drier than the desert, so I change the subject to something more moist: "I'm sure you deal with much sharper knives during surgery."

"Certainly do. Can't perform surgery with a dull scalpel. That wouldn't end well for the patients."

"Unhappy endings are often inevitable," I say, stroking the surgeon's leg.

"Unfortunately, you are correct. High-risk procedures are frequently the only option."

I walk my fingers to his inner thigh. "Do you ever make them riskier?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's say you're operating on a drug dealer or a... pedophile."

He knows what I'm getting at but still gives the wrong answer: "They get the same treatment as everyone else. I have to uphold the Hippocratic Oath." He senses my disappointment, my hand moving away from his fun stick, and he tries to save it: "Though I'm not heartbroken when certain patients don't make it."

"Yeah?" I say, unzipping his pants.

"I don't lose any sleep."

I stifle a snicker when I release him. Let's just say it's not proportional to the rest of his body. The hell with it; I climb aboard. For his part, the surgeon squeaks like a pimply virgin. I try to get myself going with some dirty talk, "You don't give a shit if they die, do you?"

"No," he moans.

I bounce faster. "You like it when they flatline, you sick fuck!"

"I love it!"

"Watching the life leave their eyes."

He tries to reciprocate and fails miserably, "Sometimes I don't even offer condolences to their families. I make the nurses do it."

I cover the surgeon's mouth with my hand, a not-so-subtle way of encouraging him to stop talking. Unfortunately, I can't suffocate his pathetic whimpers. There's only one way to get through this. I close my eyes and picture the man I rode in the same seat two months earlier. His thick member fills me entirely, his moans deep and masculine. I bite his neck, savor the taste of his natural musk. Seated hip thrusts so deep he's in my stomach; this man is absolutely drilling me. His stamina is immaculate. It's as if his pelvis is constructed from rods and pistons, designed by some master fucking engineer. I can't control the sounds that are spilling from my mouth. The wave starts in my legs before spreading to my lower belly and crashing in my chest. A tingling surge of ecstasy paralyzes every muscle, leaving me shaking in a pile of euphoria needles.

It takes several seconds before I regain control. Once I do, I have an incredibly intense urge to be held, so I wrap my arms around his muscular back. I want him to feel as amazing as me, so I do a Kegel, tightening myself around him. His pulsing dick is near eruption. He tries to hold it in, but it's not long before he succumbs. When he says he's going to come, I tell him I want it on my face. He obliges, pulling out just in time to cover me in his batter. Squinting through the protein facemask, my blurred vision prolongs the fantasy. I prefer to remain in the dark, clinging to the illusion that I just fucked that sexy treasure hunter.

God, he was good. I wish he would call.

Him

It's always been a way to justify the killing. Pick off an awful old woman with vinegar in her veins and copper-coated hands from decades of penny pinching. After all, nobody is going to miss her. Hell, I'm doing the world a favor by freeing all relatives, neighbors, and service workers from her cantankerous curse. But that's simply not true. I kill because I like to, because I need to. There's some insatiable beast inside me that can only go so long before it must feast again. Feeding time is near.

After three months with Agnes, I'm ravenous. I've strategically knocked down her walls like some celebrated war general, allowing her to trust someone for the first time in a very long time. Wrong person to open up to. Speaking of opening up, Agnes insists on a love-making session before we head off on our expedition. I've grown accustomed to these intimate encounters; I've been pretending all my life and this is no different. As long as I avoid the ripples of wrinkles and saggy bouncing breasts, I am perfectly capable of convincing myself that I'm with a beautiful woman. Lately, Eileen has been my surrogate sexual partner, making these bedtimes with Agnes, dare I say, pleasurable. Little does Agnes know this will be our last time together.

Finally, I manage to pry the old hag from her creature comforts and into the arms of this creature. Seemingly random books, articles, and websites about Lake Superior's history of shipwrecks piqued Agnes' interest, piqued her interest so much, in fact, that we're currently on our way to the great lake in hopes of reeling in our own sunken treasure. Unfortunately for Agnes, we'll only be adding to those lost treasures of the lake.

We board Agnes' ship with thousands of dollars worth of equipment. I haven't the slightest idea how to operate a single one of the gadgets, which is of no consequence at all since Agnes' adventure will be coming to an end soon. She pecks me on the cheek and tips the dock hand. I almost can't believe it. She's borderline tolerable at this point. It's amazing what getting laid can do for someone's spirits.

And now she is a spirit. After puttering a mile out into the remote, watery void, I kill the motor and Agnes. Her final words are "Darling, I'm so..." She's interrupted by the hollow thud of fire extinguisher to skull percussion. I punch a few holes in the deck (the equipment was good for something) and transport Agnes to the 25-horsepower rescue boat as the larger vessel floods. The only rewards from this hunt are those jewels on Agnes' person. I leave her paltry bank account balance for her vulture relatives to pick at. Slipping an anchor over her hips, I sacrifice Agnes to the great water spirits.

As I watch the old woman disappear into the murky depths, clutching a fistful of ill-gotten diamonds, I'm overcome with a feeling of emptiness. Yes, I satiated my bloodlust, but that feeling of exuberance, of satisfaction, is strangely absent. Could it be that the longing I felt was for something else? Something other than murder? After all, my stone heart inexplicably softened during my cousin's sappy wedding vows. Or maybe it was just allergies. Whatever the feeling, it was accompanied by visions of some woman in Arizona. As I make my escape on the rescue boat, the behemoth yacht capsizing in the far-off horizon, there is an image that consumes my thoughts, the image of a run-down brick building called the Mesquite Public Library.

Her

The naked blonde screams bloody murder when the big bull of a man penetrates her with his massive instrument. This movie plays on my 65-inch bedroom TV while I play with myself. Since the surgeon isn't hitting the right spots, I have to take matters into my own hands. And I emphasize hands, being that I prefer the manual method to shuddering plastic cylinders and remote-controlled silicone sleeves. I'm almost there when the action suddenly stops. Damn. Back to the horned-up teens puttering around Crystal Lake. That's right, I'm masturbating to Friday the 13th Part 2.

You can't tell me that Jason Vorhees isn't the perfect man: powerful, insatiable, mute, wields a giant machete. I've often fantasized about being one of his victims, a dirty slut impaled by a young stud and then by Jason's blade. I've always preferred the loose women killed off in slashers to the final girls. I have little interest in the so-called scream queens like Laurie Strode and Nancy Thompson, those virginal bores. I'd rather go out with a bang.

Speaking of a bang, the next sex scene is rapidly approaching. Not that I don't enjoy the plot (this is one of the better storylines in the franchise), but I'm mainly here for the smut. Jeff is clumsily gyrating on top of Sandra when the real fun begins. The famous ch-ch-ch-ah-ah-ah score sounds and Jason appears on screen. The music has me salivating like Pavlov's dogs, for I know what comes next. Jason drives a spear through both naked torsos in an explosion of blood. I explode too.

In the post-climax aftermath, I come to the realization that my social life is as dead as those camp counselors. Here I am, a middle-aged librarian pleasuring myself to an '80s horror flick on a Friday night. Maybe I should get a cat to complete the cliche. Or maybe I can avoid the relationship graveyard and write myself a happy ending like those other final girls. I just have to find my Jason Vorhees.

Him

What the hell am I doing? Clutching a bouquet of roses, I scurry past the library's romance section and can't help but feel like the bumbling love interest in the passing pages. The sweat accumulates at my hairline. My heart beats like mad. Maybe I'm going into cardiac arrest. This was a bad idea. I'm about to duck out the side exit when the beautiful woman at the front desk catches me in her gaze. Damn. No turning back now.

I'm used to bringing flowers to women, just never when they're alive. This makes for an awkward handoff and an even more awkward conversation. As Eileen unenthusiastically takes the flowers, I try to keep it casual: "So, how's it going?"

"You ignored my texts for six months," she says.

"I was on a business trip." She doesn't appear pleased. Time to turn on the charm. "But now I'm back." Good effort.

Eileen looks like there's something she wants to say, but she swallows the words. "Thank you for the flowers." Her disconcerting expression evolves into a forced smile. "I'm glad you're back."

I return a smile. "I'm sorry. Timing never was my thing. Let me make it up to you." I lean in for a kiss, but some stranger beats me to it. And this guy is not bashful; he rams his tongue down her throat and cups the back of her head.

When finally the mystery man is done exploring Eileen's mouth, he grins a chemically whitened smile and says to me, "Hi, I'm Chet. Nice to meet you."

I shake his hand, trying to resist the urge to break his fingers, and don't say a word. Eileen answers for me: "This is a friend of mine."

Chet's eyes find the bouquet. "Red roses, huh? Remember yellow is for friendship, fella."

I'd like to pull out his perfect teeth one by one. "My mistake."

He ignores me and sets down a brown paper bag. "Just dropping off lunch for my baby. Gotta get back to the hospital." He plants one more on Eileen, shoots me daggers, and strolls out the door.

"A doctor, huh?" I say, breaking several seconds of silence. I'm trying to keep the mood light, but there is a hurt in my chest and a sting in my eyes. What is this?

Eileen, caught in her own world, doesn't seem to notice. "I should get a vase for these roses," she says hollowly. Then she unravels the bouquet and squeezes the thorny stems. Blood seeps from the cracks in her fingers. She stares into my eyes and beckons me to follow her into the restroom. We don't speak for five minutes, content to watch the red swirl down the drain. Once the bleeding has mostly stopped, Eileen looks at me and says, "Don't worry about the surgeon. He's harmless."

"I'm not," I reply, licking the blood from her fingers. Eileen sinks her claws into my flesh like a hungry lioness and wrestles me into the bathroom stall, where we take out six months of frustration.

Her

I've always been of the opinion that bad news should be delivered with good food. For this reason, the picnic blanket is littered with deviled eggs, fruit skewers, caramelized onion quiche, rotini pasta salad, crustless watercress sandwiches, and an array of pastries. The surgeon and I are seated in our usual spot in the middle of the desert, but we're not here for the usual reason. Never admired for my tact, I get right to it, "I think we should see other people."

The surgeon spits out a half-chewed strawberry. "What?" he says like I just told him I lactate chocolate milk.

"I think we should be friends."

"But I thought we were having a good time." His tone isn't any less flabbergasted; it's like I added that I can pump out pumpkin spice lattes during the fall.

"I really don't see this going anywhere, and I don't want you to develop feelings I can't reciprocate."

He looks like he's about to cry. "It's that geek treasure hunter, isn't it?"

"I don't want to hurt you." I do.

"A little late for that."

"I'm sorry."

Middle-of-nowhere silence. Then: "You fucking kidding me?" he scowls, fishing a flask from his hip pocket. He shakes his head in disbelief. "A fucking librarian." After guzzling a couple ounces of courage, he takes a deep breath. "How about one last fuck?" he says calmly, without emotion.

Not on your life, scalpel boy. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on," the surgeon whines. "Just one more time. Please?"

He's so pathetic. "No."

Shock, denial, pouting, begging. That's four of the five stages of a fuckboy breakup. Now all we need is: "Fuck you, you stupid cunt." Right on cue. That was to be expected, but this specimen takes it a step further. He yanks my hair from behind and reels me into his chest, his other hand draped over my mouth.

I want to tell him this is more zest than he ever showed in the bedroom, that maybe we could have worked out if he'd tried this earlier, but all I can say presently is, "Mmmph."

I'm not threatened by this loser until he leans forward and hisses in my ear, "You're in no position to say 'no'." I smell the whiskey on his breath, and a chill runs down my spine. Old Crow, same stuff my father drank. I'm transported back to a moonless summer night when my bed sheets were soaked with cold sweat, when my foul father stumbled in reeking of the exact same cheap booze. He too hissed in my ear.

My reflexes take over. I don't even realize what I've done.

The surgeon suddenly yelps like a kicked dog and rolls onto the food. He stares at me with terrified eyes and then it happens: a red geyser shoots from his neck. The surgeon tries to stop the flow, but he knows a severed jugular is undefeated. After a few whimpers, he accepts death and sags into eternal stillness, his last utterance a gurgling sound.

I look at my hand. It's clenched tight around a throwing knife handle, sticky drops of blood dripping onto my fingers like a melting ice cream cone. I don't move for what could be seconds or hours, time is nonsense in my state of shock. When finally I'm able to assess the situation, I feel a surprising lack of remorse. I feel even less when I discover the contents of his pockets. In one, there is a platinum and rose gold wedding band. In the other, his bloated wallet. It's stuffed with all the chiches of a douchebag physician: a country club membership, layers of hundred dollar bills, and a black card. However, what is of most interest to me is a professional 2.5 x 3.5 photograph of two little blonde girls in sundresses.

The piece of garbage. I'm not surprised. Actually, I'm not even upset. In fact, I'm more upset that the picnic is ruined. After all, I'm still hungry. There must be something left to satiate my appetite. A-ha! There's one unsullied deviled egg left. I impale it with my knife and tell the corpse, "See, only the tip is sharp." I bring the hard-boiled heaven to my lips, but I don't eat. It's missing something. A smile stretches across my face as I add the missing ingredient, a dash of attempted rapist's blood. The tinny brine of his hemoglobin compliments the Dijon mustard in a most pleasing manner.

After my snack, it's time to clean up. I wrap him in the picnic blanket and dig a shallow grave, more than this sack of shit deserves. Out here, he won't be found for a long time. He'll almost certainly be fully decomposed by then, his face mush and his fingerprints untraceable. This fact makes me happy, but my grin fades when I notice the one on the dead body. Those damn perfect pearly whites. I'll have to do something about those dental records.

Him

Well, this is the craziest thing I've ever done. The juiciest kill has nothing on this. After 32 years building an impenetrable wall, I've finally done it: I let someone inside. God help me, I'm in a relationship. And I'm not talking about that cover-up variety of relationship that exists merely to curb suspicions while I hack up bodies behind the smokescreen. Oh no. I legitimately have feelings for Eileen. I care about her. She makes me feel things I never thought possible. And, most surprisingly, it's all so easy. After the doc seemingly fell off the face of the earth (not my doing), I fell into Eileen's arms. It's almost disturbing how normal I've become. We do those things all normal couples do.

In fact, Eileen and I are currently standing arm in arm outside Marty's door, ready for our double date. Of course, it's not Marty who answers the door. "Well, hello," Skye says, examining me as thoroughly as a Westminster Dog Show judge. Skye's dress is plastered to her toned body like plastic wrap. The uninformed observer may wonder what the hell a cute young thing like Skye is doing with a thing like Marty. As an informed observer, I would venture to guess it has something to do with Marty's proximity to my house. While doing my weekly yard work, I can't help but notice Skye watching from across the street, panting like a dog in heat. As pathetic as this unrequited puppy love may seem, my recent relationship makes me much more empathetic. After all, I do my fair share of drooling over Eileen.

"Hands off," Marty warns, even though it's Skye whose hands are on me. This doesn't seem to faze Eileen in the slightest, which is yet another reason why I find her irresistible. You don't find that kind of security often.

Insecurity, however, is ever-abundant in our society, as evidenced by Marty's constant monitoring of Skye to ensure she doesn't get too friendly with yours truly. At one point, Marty observes a failed footsy attempt by Skye and nearly has a stroke. Of course, he doesn't address the issue directly. No, that would be too practical. Instead, Marty's revenge consists of mean-spirited comments aimed at my date: "Isn't he a little young for you? You'd think a woman your age would be settled down with a husband by now", "What brings you to Arizona? Hiding from someone?", and "Isn't being a librarian boring? What is it you do for fun?"

For her part, Eileen manages to resist the urge to stab Marty in the eye with her salad fork, instead answering each question with more grace and humor than Marty deserves. I excuse myself before Marty becomes my first male victim. After extinguishing the fire with a splash of cold sink water, I find Skye waiting outside the bathroom door. Her fire is obviously still burning. "You finished up in there already?" she asks flirtatiously. After I tell her I have, she assaults me with mischievous nymph eyes. "No, you haven't. But I can help you finish if you want."

"What are you talking about?" I know exactly what she's talking about.

Skye leaves no room for interpretation when she grabs between my legs. "We can go back into the bathroom if you want to finish properly."

This is a conundrum, but not for the reasons one would expect. I'm not cheating on Eileen with some sorority floozy, even if she is kind of cute. However, I still need to control Skye in case things ever go south with Marty, in case the dope ever finds anything out. I have to let her down easy. "That's very flattering," I begin.

She doesn't wait for an elaboration: "Are you sure you're finished?" Her hand is moving down there.

I'm struggling to find the words. Luckily, someone else finds them: "He's sure." Marty's voice is much calmer than his face. He acts as if I don't exist when addressing Skye, "Honey, can we talk?"

Skye looks like she's got bamboo shoots under her fingernails. "It would be rude to leave our guests."

"It'll only be a minute."

"I've heard that before," Skye quips, trying to inject some levity into the tenseness. Marty, in no mood for jokes, yanks her by the wrist and hurls her into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard it recoils and remains open a sliver.

Through the opening, I can only see the closest corner of Marty's bed. I decide to stake out here in the event Marty gets violent and I have to neutralize him. There's some aggressive back and forth, most of which I can't make out, before the mattress compresses. Skye's face is now on the bed corner, surrounded on each side by her elbows. She's been tossed on her stomach. Her head starts bobbing, accompanied by the rustling of the fabric, the squeak of the bedsprings, and the wet slapping of skin on skin. Marty's moans and groans are revolting; thank God I can't see him. For her part, Skye looks as if she's in a doctor's office waiting room.

I'm about to slink away when Skye's eyes meet mine. Her boredom instantly transforms to lust as her stony gaze remains affixed to yours truly. She smiles and exposes her breasts to me. Those milky, perky tits bounce with youthful elasticity, causing me to momentarily question my age cutoff. She pinches her nipples, moans from her throat. When she arches her back, I get a glimpse of her toned stomach, alabaster and flat as an ironing board. My God. It's now that I realize I'm hard as a diamond. I feel my outline above my pants and decide this would not constitute cheating. Skye silently commands me what to do, and I can't resist. Just a quick release. I unzip my pants, gather the longing in Skye's eyes. I'm just about to slip it through and start pumping when I hear Marty's grotesque cry: "Here it comes!" He emits a few pathetic sounds, and then it's all over. I zip up my pants.

Skye blows me a kiss and adjusts her dress. Her face disappears from the bed corner and reappears on the other side of the door. I'm a deer in the headlights as she approaches. What is she going to say? Is she going to grab me again? The contact is considerably less than expected; she grazes my shoulder in passing as she says, "I'm going to check on Eileen."

I only have a few moments to myself before Marty comes stumbling out with the same flop sweat he wears at the gym. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes. "I know what you're doing," he says. "You think you're pretty slick, don't you? If I ever catch you, you are going down. That much I can promise you."

"Marty, I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

He presses his nose to mine and I can smell the booze on his breath. "You stay the fuck away from Skye."

"I will," I say. The hostility is followed by what might be a half eternity of silence, during which I pray for an interruption of any kind. Thankfully, my prayers are answered: a record screeches, announcing the arrival of 60s psychedelic pop via the living room speakers. I motion toward the source of the sound and Marty begrudgingly follows.

The animosity between Marty and me juxtaposes the festivities in the other room, where Eileen and Skye are cutting loose like a couple go-go dancers. They both give me a loving look, but it's Skye who speaks: "You know The Zombies?"

I'm about to turn your boyfriend into one if he doesn't back off. "I think I've heard of them," I say.

"More Eileen's generation," Marty says snidely. At this point, I'm ready to remove Marty's spleen, but Eileen's gyrating body finds mine and I wouldn't leave her for all of Marty's organs. Skye tries to make it a threesome, but Marty yanks her by the arm and drunkenly breathes something into her ear. Whatever he whispers works, because Skye doesn't look my way the rest of the night.

Eileen, conversely, eyes Marty the remainder of the evening. After taking his low blows in stride, she appears to have reached her breaking point. Her smile has slipped, and she watches Marty like a plotting snake, her steely reptilian eyes zeroing in on the prey as the speakers blast "She's Not There."

Her

She's not there. After my third visit to Dr. Lauren Goldblatt's office without an answer, I come to an unfortunate conclusion: the bitch is ducking me. Under normal circumstances, this would be cause for celebration, but I'm presently in desperate need of Ambien. This new wave of insomnia is inspired by my fear that I did the wrong thing. To be clear, I'm not talking about killing that waste of surgical scrubs. I have no qualms about that. Rather, I'm questioning why I didn't contact the authorities and report the surgeon's fortunate demise as a case of self defense.

After all, in today's society the court of public opinion will almost always side with the abused woman. But would the slain surgeon's elevated status mean that a more traditional court setting would be necessary? Would standing trial be the worst thing? Get acquitted and never worry about someone stumbling across the not-yet-decomposed body. I'm sure his wife would get over it. Take the inheritance and spend her days poolside getting pounded by some young Guatemalan stud. Unfortunately, that is no longer an option. I have to curb my anxiety while the surgeon's wife has to wait before she can get on all fours for Central America.

And so I'm left with no other choice; I have to make a house call. However, just as I pull into the luxury apartment parking lot, Dr. Lauren Goldblatt heads in the opposite direction, zooming southbound in her Tesla Model Y with the oh-so-cringey vanity plate "TALKDOC." I follow at a safe distance.

The Scottsdale streets, lined with their swanky boutiques and overpriced restaurants, transform into the cracked and broken pavement snaking through the slums of South Phoenix. There's no reason for the uppity bitch to be here unless she's trying to avoid the eyes of everyone in her upper class circle. The snob would normally never set foot in an establishment without a selection of artisan teas, so when she settles between the white lines in front of a Subway, I know she's engaging in a nefarious affair. I turn into the liquor store across the street and take cover in an alley.

Through the eyes of my binoculars, I watch Dr. Lauren Goldblatt take a seat at a booth. I can't imagine she'd taint her pretentious palate with a Cold Cut Combo or Meatball Marinara. And I'm right; she never orders. Instead, she clutches a manilla envelope, waiting for a confidant with less-discerning taste. It arrives in the form of Marty, my boyfriend's fuckwad neighbor. He looks to have a footlong sub (not compensating for anything) and a stupid grin. I can't fathom what brought these two degenerates together.

Apparently, it was the contents of that envelope. Dr. Lauren Goldblatt slides it across the table, and the possibilities of what it could be pound around in my skull. But a different kind of pounding interrupts my thoughts. The source is a skeezy man with a dirty hoodie and a dirty goatee, a druggie who raps his fist against my driver-side window. I try to ignore him, but the fuck stick won't stop knocking. White-knuckle clutching my throwing knife, wondering if I'll have to use it twice in a month, I roll down the window and am greeted by these slurred words:

"Whatchu need?"

"Pardon me?" I ask.

Like a boozed-up broken record, he repeats, "Whatchu need?"

My confusion morphs into clarity, for this tweaker is certainly my deliverance, a guardian angel flying on fentanyl. "Got any Ambien?" I ask.

"I got something even better," he says, showing his green teeth.

I sneak one last peek at the psychiatrist and moron luncheon, and suddenly it becomes clear what needs to be done. I set down the binoculars and smile. "How much?"

Him

I stand over the old woman with a shovel. She's kneeling in the Sonoran Desert sand beside a freshly dug hole. Slowly raising the shovel over my head, I plunge the blade into my target. It makes a surprisingly soft sound. "Everything looks good," the old woman says, observing the shovel I've just spiked into the desert floor. "Twenty-two hundred sound okay?" A couple grand for my life's work. A couple grand for the tools that ended all those lives. I nod my head in agreement.

The old woman pays in cash, and I help her load everything into the bed of her pickup truck. Some of the tools haven't been with me long so their departures are painless. However, when I find myself holding a waterproof metal detector, the old woman practically has to pry it from my hands. Finally, though, I let Sofia go and watch the grumbling Ford F-150 drive out of sight. Sorry, old girl, but there's another woman in my life. There's just not enough room for both of you.

Though I do have a nice little nest egg built from the bones of my victims, I decide to take on a new profession to keep up appearances. Since I've vowed to never return to the office, the new gig must be outdoors, preferably something that keeps me active and fit. The opportunity to dig holes is a bonus. No, I'm not a gravedigger. Due to my early retirement, that isn't as lucrative a business as it once was. Fortunately, Phoenix is one of the fastest growing metropolitans in the country, and the housing market is shooting through the roof (bad pun). And all those new homes need new yards, so why not be a landscaper instead of a serial killer?

Let me just say that landscaping in Phoenix is not like most of the country. Notions of unfurling strips of sod and planting leafy trees are quickly disproven here. The majority of yards are comprised of two features: cacti and rocks. My days are spent hauling wheelbarrows of granite, gravel, and lava stones and implanting saguaros, prickly pears, and chollas. These maintenance-free features need little water or care, so most clients are of the one-time variety. I wouldn't have it any other way.

And so it went for seven months: I'd come home after 10 hours of sun-baked manual labor, covered in sweat and grime, and make passionate love to Eileen. We'd talk for hours afterward; I could have sworn I was human after all. She did something to me, quelled the darkness inside me. This was the happiest I'd ever been. With Eileen consuming the entirety of my thoughts, my mind didn't wander toward murder a single time for more than half a year.

However, as all addicts can attest, the smallest incident can trigger the first step on the road to relapse. Today is a day like any other. Having been called to remove a dying cholla cactus from someone's front yard, the smallest incident occurs. The Teddy-bear cholla's flesh is mostly stripped, leaving only cylindrical, porous arms the color of bone. It's amazing how closely this collection of hollow tubes resembles a skeleton. A surge of adrenaline has me trembling as I uproot the corpse. It doesn't struggle. The acceptance of death. Now there's an empty hole in the Arizona earth. Memories flood back and I'm overcome with desire.

It's a desire not even Eileen can fulfill. "You sure are restless tonight," she says after an underwhelming love-making session.

"I'm sorry," I say. I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for tonight or for the thoughts in my head.

"It's alright. I don't take it personally." As she shouldn't. This has nothing to do with her, but I can't help but feel guilty. And I haven't even done anything. Yet.

***

She was supposed to be enough. She almost was. There were nights when I held her in my arms and felt complete for the first time in my life. Then there were nights without sleep when some nameless thought kept me awake. It wasn't always intense, but it was ever-present, like an impatient child perpetually tugging at my shirt sleeve. I wonder if I can ignore this child for the rest of my life.

The plan isn't going well. I am so easily triggered that I have to cut all red liquids out of my diet. Gone are ketchup and marinara sauce; I now dunk my fries in mustard and top my noodles with alfredo. Tomato soup causes an existential crisis. Eileen is far too perceptive to not pick up on my quietly crumbling psyche. I need to come up with something:

"I'm sure you've noticed I've been a little on edge lately. And there's a reason. This isn't easy for me to say, but I feel it's important I tell you: I'm a recovering heroin addict."

Eileen says she isn't surprised. Between the sweating, the sleepless nights, and the loss of appetite, it was obvious what I was hiding. Relief washes over me. However, I feel slightly less relieved when Eileen says, "We're going to get you some help."

The help, as it were, is found in the musty basement of St. Joseph's Catholic Church, where folding chairs and stale donuts serve as the foundation for my road to recovery. A woman holding a plastic chip blubbers as she recalls all the times she shook down her parents for cash. When it comes to my turn, I don't feel comfortable sharing the details, so all I say is: "My name is Ulysses and I'm an addict." This is actually my name.

I'm content to play shy guy for the first several weeks, revealing nothing but my name and my affliction. However, when Eileen sees I'm still a perspiring bundle of nerves, she suggests I speak up at the next meeting. "For me," she says. I wouldn't do it for anyone but her.

"Fine," I agree.

I prepare a speech and silently rehearse it dozens of times. This is just another performance for a lifetime actor. Nothing I'm not used to. But when it's my turn to speak to the room of broken people, the words that come out are not the ones I memorized. This is what I say:

"Hi, I'm Ulysses and I'm an addict. I guess I've always been kind of curious. From a really young age, actually. I never knew anyone who did it; I'd never seen anyone do it. All I knew was I needed to try. Something inside me was drawn to it. Almost like a genetic default. The first time was when I was 17. I'd never felt anything like it. After being in a constant state of numbness, I finally felt something. I needed more. I knew what I was doing was wrong, knew that I was hurting people, but I couldn't stop. I tried to replace it with so many other things. Nothing else came close. So it became my new normal. It was the only way I could feel anything. Until I met Eileen. She's that woman over there. I wanted to quit for her and I thought I could. But that urge is always there. Some days it's stronger than others, but it's always there, lurking. I really wish I could quit for her because I love her so much. Okay, that's it."

I'm barraged with hugs and supportive words that spew from coffee breath mouths. To tell the truth, it's cathartic to finally share something, even if it isn't the entire truth. I have more in common with these people than I ever could have imagined. Only instead of tainting my bloodstream, I'm spilling the blood of others.

The meetings continue for two months, during which my anxiety actually gets better. Eileen and I are happier than ever. Maybe I can suppress the urges. Maybe I can fit my round peg into this square existence after all. Or maybe not.

It comes out of the blue. On no particular day, for no particular reason, I acknowledge the child tugging at my sleeve. And like all parents who look upon the face of their creation, it's nearly impossible to say no.

I skip this week's meeting and instead go for a drive. Where I end up is a familiar, fluorescent-lighted establishment that I visited in another life. A bad-ass blade spills onto the counter and the man called Bill smiles beneath his pushbroom mustache. "So, does this mean you're back in business?" he asks.

I bring the shovel in close, almost hugging it. "I suppose so," I say.