Hard to Kill Chapter Attempt
[There it is after 48h, my personal writing challenge. Idk if it's good, I am very opened to writing advice or ideas. Maybe I'll post another chapter from the other character's POV. Basically, flashbacks are in Simon's pov and the present story is from Ed's pov. Sorry, it's a bit long, thanks in advance if you read it]
TW: mentions of animal abuse.
Simon 1 : How I Met Your Father
Gideon Wellington has to die. I knew it as soon as I read the headline denouncing the animal testing that took place in his companyโs factory. Wellington dealt in beauty products and diet medication. The newspaper showed pictures of chemical burns on pigs, lipstick on monkeys, Botox in mice and rabbits, famished animals kept alive on vitamin pills destined to self-conscious teenagers his adds usually targeted.
I put everything in motion the very next day. I researched him. I found his address, his offices, and started following him. Meanwhile, Wellington sued the newspaper for defamation. Animal activists tried to storm his factory where they were met with heavy and violent security. The whistle blowers denounced harassment. Many rival journalists fed on the scandal to justify the use of animals to make good products. I was still following Wellington when he started to push for legislation to make animal testing more lenient.
I decided to kill him on Tuesday November 4th 1995. After following and researching him for about a year on and off, I knew his planning by heart. I knew his familyโs names and address, his favorite restaurant, his favorite brand of cigarettes, his habits, the high-end bars he would go drink in, the names of three of his dealers, his golfing scoresโฆ I knew his secrets, and I knew the one that would get him killed.
On every fourth of the month, he meets with a woman. Cleo Deluca I donโt think thatโs her real name. She offers particular services. Sheโs good at it. I think. At least sheโs paid a lot to do it, based on the luxury clothes she was wearing the few times I saw her. They meet at a beautiful house on the edge of the city. She does not live here, neither does he. Itโs an Airbnb they rent every month. The reason why no one knows about him coming here became clear after I went through Miss Deluca's trash and was met with a very familiar, unappealing smell. I am not one to kink-shame, but my compulsive cleanliness would not let me handle such practices, and my job requires me to handle animal blood, feces, placentas and puke every single day. But animals are different. They canโt help it. They donโt like it. They donโt like coming to my practice and get checked up. The least I can do is act unbothered by their little accidents. He voluntarily covers himself with such matters. Thatโs probably why he doesnโt tell anyone where heโs going, which is why today is the perfect day to kill Gideon Wellington. He comes here alone, in a taxi, the street is always empty and no one knows. He would disappear right here.
I park โmyโ car as close as I can to the house at exactly ten in the evening. The road is calm, empty, and almost completely dark. No light on the upper floors, which means he isnโt here yet. I doubt Miss Deluca would be one to call the police to signal her richest client did not show up to his weekly fetish appointment, but I cannot take any risk. Thus I have to catch him before he sets foot into the house, sedate him, put him in the car and take his phone to inform Miss Deluca he would not be coming due to a work emergency. That would leave me about six hours to do what I have to do. He is my tenth. I have my routine, and my past nine bodies have proven that with enough preparation and enough โjust-in-caseโ, I can get away with anything. I pull a big paper map out of the glove box. I get out of my car, place the map on my hood and start pretending to look at it. He is going to arrive, I will ask for help, give him a dose of Acepromazine, put him in the trunk and leave without a trace. Quick, swift, discreet. I idly run my eyes over the map and trace an imaginary route. I try to regulate my breath. In and out, and in and out. Adrenaline is already pumping in my veins and it makes my ears buzz. My hand is slightly shaking too. I close my eyes. In and out. In and outโ
โHi there, are you lost?โ Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Itโs not Wellingtonโs voice. I donโt know that voice. That wasnโt planned. That wasnโt planned at all. The street was empty a second ago. I donโt know where he came from. I turn around, trying in vain to keep my breathing calm. Heโs very tall. Heโs wearing a scarf wrapped around his face. I opted for a high collar coat and a lowered hat. My long hair is falling on my face and it is thick and dark enough to hide most of my features. I smile at the stranger, staring deep in his eyes to find out why he was here.
โHi, Iโ em. I am just checking my itinerary. Iโll be gone in a jiffy,โ In a jiffy, seriously? Everything has always been according to plan. I have been in this street, every Tuesday at the same exact hour every week for eight months in preparation for this, and I have never seen so much as a stray cat. As I observe at the man more carefully, it becomes clear that he doesnโt belong to this part of town. His coat is dirty, his grey eyes look tired, but they feel slightly hostile. He smells like onions. He stares at me without a word. He doesnโt want me here. I am not going anywhere.
โWhere are you heading?โ He questioned, glancing at the map. Breathe. In and out. I know how to answer that. I rehearsed it. The performance was not meant for him, but I can pull it off.
โA job interview a couple towns over. Iโve been driving all day, I think I might just take a nap in my car,โ I explain.
โYou shouldnโt. This street isnโt safe.โ
โHow would you know?โ My answer makes him tick. He glances left and right, slowly slipping his fingers into his coat pocket. I know a man reaching for a knife when I see one. He isnโt here to mug me, he would have done so already. He doesnโt look high or drunk. There is this heaviness around him that feels frightening and familiar. Heโs here for the same reason I am. I grab his arm and squeeze it tight, โyou canโt stab me. Because if you do, you wonโt have time to hide my body before the person youโre waiting for shows up,โ I say, โyou donโt belong here. Youโre waiting for someone.โ
โSo are you,โ he answers, not removing his hand from his pocket, โDeluca?โ
โWell too bad, so am I,โ he pushes me against the car and just as I predicted, pulls a knife out of his pocket. He presses the blade against my throat. I can feel it large and sharp like a kitchen knife. A good one at that. Sharp as the scalpels I use, โif you drive away now, I might let you leave without a scratch,โ he murmurs.
โI canโt,โ I say, โI wonโt,โ I knee him in the groin and push him away. He grunts and stumbles long enough for me to grab the scalpel in my sleeve and point it at him. I see the blade in his hand. I was mistaken. It is not a kitchen knife. It is a meat carver. Suddenly the pieces click together, โyouโre the ham-hock killer,โ I blurt out. He stares at my scalpel.
โIn the flesh. Who are you?โ
โThey call me the Taxidermist but I hate it.โ
โI shouldโve guessed from the dog smell. Donโt you usually stick to slaughterhouses owners, and randoms? This is out of your league.โ
โDonโt you read the papers? He owns several animal testing facilities. They found thousands of animals. Pigs, rabbits, monkeys, dogs, mice, cut open and left to die, poisoned, burnt, and not only does he know about it but he doesnโt care, nobody cares. Yes, Iโm out of my league, yes, this is not my usual kind of target, but if this is the last monster I ever kill, Iโll happily end my career tomorrow,โ he stares at me quietly and lowers his weapon. I lower mine, โwhy do you want him?โ
โHeโs a rich pig who spends his day and fortune making the world a lot worse,โ he explains, โdo you know how meticulous you have to be to kill someone like him? The cops actually care about someone like that.โ
โI am extremely meticulous.โ I check my watch. Heโs going to be here soon, โyouโll have plenty of other rich assholes to kill. I wonโt,โ he stares at me for a moment, listening. I think. He slips his knife back inside his pocket.
โAlright, how about this: Let me tag along and Iโll let you kill him.โ What the hell?
โYou are not tagging along.โ I bark.
โI saw your face, dear. Unless you plan on gutting me now, weโre together in this.โ I should.
He is too tall for the trunk. I canโt gut him. Suddenly, the roaring of a motor. Wellington is here. Just as one, we dive on the road map and pretend to look at it. The stranger still smells like onions. Not bad onions, well-done onions. I donโt hate it. The taxi stops and drops Wellington. My heart beats into my ears and a shiver of adrenaline rushes down my spine. Finally. Finally. I gesture at him as the taxi drives away.
โExcuse me, Sir! Iโ weโre a little lost, would you mind taking a look at our map?โ he doesnโt look at me. He doesnโt even glance at me. Instead, he walks faster and reaches for the doorbell. What the fuck? That is so rude. Who does he think he is? The stranger acts faster than I can think and he lunges at Wellington and punches him in the throat. Then he grabs him by the hair and throws him on the pavement, gesturing towards him. I rush over, pull the tranquilizer out of my pocket and stick the needle in his shoulder, pressing my hand against his mouth. He still struggles for a moment, then he stops moving. I stare at him, confused, โwhy didnโt he stopโ why didnโt heโโ I stutter, breath out of control. This wasnโt how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be alone. He jinxed it. The stranger jinxed it.
โThey donโt usually stop for commoners like us. Shall I put him in your car?โ he asks, lifting the man over his shoulder like he was a sack of flour. Reluctantly, I nod and help him place the body in the trunk, โIโll just leave my car here, let me get my bag and Iโll be right back. Donโt leave without me.โ Now he sounds almostโฆ giddy. He walks to a dark car a few feet from mine and grabs two large leather bags from the trunk. I could leave. I probably should. But Iโve never talked to someone with the same hobby as me before. Iโm curious. Besides, he is right. I am out of my league. If he hadnโt been there, I would have let Wellington slip away. I thought I was prepared enough. Maybe I am not. I need him. Just for today. Iโll keep it simple and professional. Keep the conversation to a minimum, finish the job, say goodbye, go home.
He throws his bags in the backseat with a metallic noise and sits next to me. I start the car and we leave. He undoes his scarf as soon as weโre out of town. I glance at him.
โWhat are you doing?โ
โWell, I saw your face. Itโs only fair you see mine,โ he smiles. He has a long face, short messy hair and high cheekbones. Handsome, in the way a stalking praying mantis is. โSo, where are you taking us?โ he asks.
โAbandoned factory, an hour away.โ
โYou cleared the place?โ
โI was planning to take him to a rearranged old shipping container. But the factory sounds nice. Heโs going to freak out,โ he chuckles. I nod. After a few minutes of silence, he turns to me again, โwhat do you plan to do to him? Iโve seen pictures of your work, itโs gruesome.โ
โYouโll see,โ I say. Another moment of silence follows. I switch on the radio and focus on my breath again until it finally settles down.
โHow long have you been doing this?โ
โCool,โ he nods. โHow many?โ
โReally? You are meticulous. Didnโt the police count just three?โ
โYes,โ I see him nod in the corner of my eyes. He looks through the window for a moment.
โNot much of a talker, are you?โ I vaguely shake my head, โthatโs alright, I can do the talking,โ Please donโt. โI like your work. Iโve never seen anyone like this before. Not to this scale. Not a lot of people out there giving real payback for animal lives. I really admire what you did with the artist who made that installation with exotic fishes. He had like twelve animal rights foundations up his ass, it seemed like he was going to get away with it and woosh!โ Woosh? โYou came up with your own installation and it was grandiose!โ
โThanks.โ Another silence.
โDo you like sea animals?โ
โWhatโs your favorite?โ
โOrcas. Theyโre the most fascinating animal in the sea. They have their own language, which varies depending on the region, they can teach each other things, their hunting techniques are evidence of acute intelligence, and they can take on something as big as a white shark. Although, I do have a soft spot for seals as well, especially harbor seals. I got to swim with a few once. I could not touch them, but they were so curious and adorable. They would come grab my leg and touch my mask.โ
โWhy canโt you touch them?โ
โBecause legally, you canโt. Theyโre protected. If they get used to humans, they might get close to a ship and get hurt.โ
โI see,โ he nodded, โthatโs too bad, they look very soft. I guess only vets are allowed to touch them. Lucky guys.โ
โNot all vets, only a fraction of us are allowed toโโ
Idiot. You fucking idiot. You fucking dumbass. Why donโt you tell him your name, address and blood type? Youโre already putting yourself at risk, what the fuck are you doing. If he gets caught, theyโll just start interviewing veterinarians all over the state and theyโll get to me eventually. If he decides he canโt trust me, he can find my practice and come and kill me. Iโm fucked. Iโm dead. Itโs all over. I can feel my stomach turning and my throat starts to burn. My fingers wrap tighter around the steering wheel and my jaw cramps up.
โIโm a chef, by the way.โ he says with a sweet tone. I turn to look at him. He is calm. His eyes are on me but heโs not staring. There is a softness in his attitude. โI donโt have my own restaurant yet, but I want to.โ
โIโ hope you will.โ
โThanks. Hey, did you bring anything to eat? I could cook you a little something. I mean, our guest over there has plenty of meat for two.โ So he does eat them, like the press thinks.
โNo thanks, Iโm a vegetarian.โ
โThat checks out. But is it really the same as eating chicken or beef? I mean, weโre already killing them. Might as well pack some calories while weโre at it.โ
โI donโt know.โ I shrug. I havenโt eaten meat since I was eight. I donโt think my body is equipped for that anymore.
โWell I have some vegetables packed up too. I was planning on making something simple like ham and potato soup. Itโs comforting and nourishing. Great for this time of the year. I could make you a quick salad.โ
โYou brought cooking instruments to a crime scene?โ
โOf course I did. You should see their faces when I take a bite out of them. Itโs hilarious.โ he smiles. โIโll make food for two, you can have a bite if you want to.โ How does one even cook human flesh? Iโve seen my share of human muscles and organs. They donโt look good. I donโt get why anyone would eat them willingly.
โWhat does it taste like?โ
โIf cooked well, itโs very close to pork. It depends on the person, though. I once ate that old guy, Dixon Topwells, who was known to only eat junk food, andโฆ the meat was fat. But not a good fat. I suppose youโve never had cheap steak. It tasted cheap. Like state fair food.โ
โI see.โ I nodded, slightly grossed out.
โI heard Wellingtonโs diet is better, though. He should taste a lot better.โ he smiles.
We hear a weak thumping noise in the trunk. He is not supposed to be up this early in the evening. Weโre only a few minutes away from the crime scene, so I am not too worried. The stranger looks excited. I am too. Itโs odd having someone here, but itโs not as unpleasant as I expected. Heโs sweet. We spend the next few minutes in silence. I am almost shivering in anticipation. Finally, I park the car behind a few trees near the factory. Itโs an old can factory from the 60s that went bankrupt a decade ago. We get up and bring the bags inside. We pull out our respective masks. Mine is homemade, a dog-shaped mask similar to Anubisโ head. The strangerโs is less creative. A simple, long, flat, pitch-black mask. I quickly prepare another syringe of tranquilizer. We go back to the car. Itโs cold out. I should have brought a jumper. I vigorously rub my arms as we get back to the car. Without a word, the stranger takes off his coat and puts it on my back.
โOh thanksโ arenโt you going to be cold?โ I ask.
โIโll be just fine.โ he says, opening the trunk.
โWhat the fuck is going on? Who areโโ The stranger slams the trunk on Wellingtonโs head as he attempts to get up. Then he opens it again, grabs him by the collar and throws him on the ground.
โYouโre lucky,โ the stranger keeps going, โthis is the only time I ever thought about wearing a sweater under my cooking clothes.โ He says, keeping a foot on Wellingtonโs back. โI always forget too.โ I kneel down and push the needle inside his arm. He quickly calms down. I grab his shoulders while the stranger grabs his feet. We slowly carry him back to the factory. I already prepared a chair. We tie his wrists, his ankles and his neck. I pull out my tools and start lining them up on a trail. The stranger prepares his own tool. I can hear him sharpening his knives and settling a sort of camping stove on the floor. I turn around and watch him look at a bunch of small glass containers. He brought spices. A few minutes later, I am ready and the stranger has started chopping herbs. I stare at him, still bewildered that he would bother bringing so many things to a crime scene. He then started chopping vegetables incredibly fast. He took a few pieces of carrot and celery and ate them.
โYou want a bite?โ he asks. Iโm hungry.
โSure.โ I inch closer to him and grab a piece of carrot. Itโs good. He watches me eat it before putting all the pieces in a bowl.
โSoโฆ what is your favorite thing to cook?โ I ask. Thatโs a stupid question to ask a chef.
โI donโt really have a favorite dish, it really depends on the day. I really like making sweet and savory things, though. How about you? I suppose you donโt get to help orcas in your every day life.โ
โI really like dogs. I donโt really have a favorite one.โ
โIโm more of a cat person myself, but I like pugs. Theyโre funny.โ I bite my tongue. I love dogs as much as I hate the breeding industry that produces a part of them. But apparently, scolding people on their favorite dog breed is โaggressiveโ and โmeanโ. I just turn around and go back to checking my tools. I hear the stranger chuckle. โWhat was that?โ he questions.
โThat. We were talking, then you just froze, made a weird face and walked away.โ
โI didnโtโโ realize I was making a weird face, โItโs nothing.โ
โAre you sure? Because Iโd rather you tell me now than when youโre full of adrenaline with a hammer in your hand.โ he chuckles.
โI donโt like pugs. Not pugs themselves, I donโt like the circumstances of pugs.โ I explain. He laughs.
โThatโs the best sentence Iโve ever heard.โ he chuckles. I donโt think heโs making fun of me. โCome on. Enlighten me about the circumstances of pugs.โ I donโt know why, it makes me smile. It does sound a bit funny.
โWell. Itโs not a problem thatโs exclusive to pugs, but it shows in them especially. For some reason as a society, we came together and decided that the best types of dogs have to present some form of physical extremity. So we bred them to present these characteristics which leads to significant health problems. Pugsโ noses are meant to be cute but some, most of them, canโt breathe properly. They can have eye problems, their health is very fragile as well, they can have a lot of skin problemsโฆ Each time someone brings a pug to my practice, I know theyโre going to be there for a while and leave with a bill thatโs going to set them back for a while. I donโt like to charge people a lot. But I have employees I need to pay, and the instruments are expensive as hell. Itโs disgusting that pugs keep being bred in that sense. Itโs only going to get worse with time and I wish more people knew about that. A lot of people donโt do enough research, and I donโt blame them. Itโs not the individualโs fault if dogs are usually seen as commodities, and my pug patients all have very loving owners who arenโt afraid to foot the bill and see me once a month to make sure their senior animal is doing well. There should be more awareness in the milieu is all. I know a breeder who is trying to reverse it and give pugs a normal sized nose, but theyโre not as cute so she is not as successful as she would like to be. All this to say, if you ever plan on getting a dog, there are plenty of them who wait to be adopted in shelters, even pugs, but if you really want a purebred dog, you should really research the type beforehand.โ I have a list in my head of dogs to avoid if you want to keep your vet bills to a minimum. I should spare him for now. He nods approvingly.
โWell youโre right. I didnโt know all that.โ he says. โSomeone I know is looking to adopt, maybe I should send them your way.โ
โMaybe.โ I nod, glancing at Wellington. He is moving slightly, I think heโll wake up soon. I adjust my mask.
โThis is me asking for your number.โ he says. What?
โYour phone number. Or fax, Iโm not picky.โ
โI donโt know. I like the way you talk. Youโre very passionate. If tonight goes well, Iโd love to see you again.โ
โI see.โ What is happening? Why do I feel all weird?
The noise of a wave of puke hitting the ground echoed in the room. I might have overdone it with the tranquilizer. We both turn toward Wellington who is just coming to his senses. He sees us and starts screaming. They always do. I just watch and wait, unreadable under my mask. Itโs usually easier to let them get it all out at the beginning, then we can talk. Then they can know exactly why Iโm here. The stranger has started setting up a pot. Wellington gives up on senseless noises and starts begging to be let go. I donโt usually talk a lot. This kind of works like therapy. They do the talking, and usually, they have a lot to say. I inch toward the prisoner and kneels to his level, just staring.
โWhat do you want!?โ he screams. โIf itโs money you want, my checkbook is in my back pocket. Iโll sign you a check right now!โ I stand up, slowly reaching towards his pocket. The checkbook is there. I pull it out and wave it in front of him. โYes! Yes, that! How much do you want? A million? More? Iโll give you a blank check if you want!โ I reach into my pocket for my lighter. As I move the flame closer to the paper, I watch his face lose all colors, and his expression be drained of what little confidence he had left. Then, I stand up and walk away, leaving the burning pile at his feet. โYouโre not gonna get away with it! If Iโm not in the office by six, theyโll call the police, find you and fucking kill you! You donโt know who youโre messing with! I know the commissioner, heโll hunt you down!โ
โBlah, blah, blah, blah.โ The stranger smiles, โgod, you people are so predictable. Believe me, everyone knows the commissioner. No one ever caught me. Hell, most of you shook hands with the president. Heโs not here right now. Heโs not going to save you. Now, why do you think youโre here?โ the stranger leans towards me and whispers in my ear, โnow heโs going to list a lot of thingsโฆ these people usually have a lot of skeletons in their closet. Whatโs fun is answering no to everything and see how much shit theyโve done.โ His breath is hot. I can feel it through his mask. Just as he predicted, Wellington starts speaking. First about people he fired. Then people he sued. Then the companies he made go bankrupt. The stranger shakes his head every time.
โI donโt know! I donโt know why Iโm here!โ he exclaims, frustrated. The stranger shrugs and grabs a pair of kitchen knives. He casually starts to sharpen them together, slowly moving towards Wellington. Suddenly the prisoner remembers more things he has done. Exes he left with nothing, two bastards he never recognized, a young intern whose sexual harassment complaint led nowhere, the workers who died in his factoryโฆ Still no word about animals. Thatโs why what I do is so important. They canโt file complaints, they canโt be avenged. The stranger stops sharpening his knife and just stands in front of Wellington. He leaves him a few more seconds. It seems he is out of confessions. Then, he turns to me.
โIs that why heโs here, my friend?โ he questions. Iโm his friend now. I silently shake my head, which sends the prisoner into a frenzy. He tries to pull on his bonds, he screams again.
โThen you have the wrong fucking person!! This is it!! This is everything!โ
โNo itโs not.โ I say. I open my bag and pull out the pictures of animals I cut from newspapers. I put them in front of his face. โDoes this ring any bells?โ
โWhat theโ What the fuck!? Thatโs it!? You kidnapped me for a bunch of dead animals!? What the fuck is wrong with you!?โ
โI didnโt think youโd understand.โ They never do. Not with words. I sigh, going back to my belongings. I pick up a red lipstick from his company. Stolen of course. I grabbed the testing one. I go back to him and grab him by the hair. โDonโt move.โ I command, pressing the red tip against his lips and making him a big red smile. โThis shade looks good on you.โ I push the product as much as I can and break the wax. โEat it.โ He keeps it close and shakes his head. โFine.โ Iโm used to my patients keeping their mouths close. Usually I bribe them with a treat. I donโt think this would work. So I push the shape against his lips, prying them opened quite easily. I start mushing the lipstick on his front teeth, the side of his canines, of his molars, until all that is left between my fingers is a smudge of dirty red wax. Then I put my hands on his cheeks and start rubbing them like you would a babyโs, massaging the product deeper into his mouth, until he retches from the taste. โI hope you liked it. Itโs just appetizers.โ I go back to my bag where several pouches of slop awaits me. โThis is what you feed your animals. Itโs a mixture of leftovers vegetables, grains and meat you buy from packing factories. The things humans wonโt eat. Feet, guts, bad products. I have five of them.โ Wellingtonโs face goes pale. โEither you eat all of them willingly, or Iโll make you.โ He doesnโt say anything, but he slightly opens his mouth. โGood boy.โ
I open the pouch and dig my fingers into it. It squishes in my hand like a week old puree. I shove a portion into his mouth. He retches again, half of the substance coats his face in fat and pieces of bones. I grab his jaw and slam it close until I hear several painful gulping sounds, and angry gurglings coming from his stomach. I scoop another portion of slop and aim it towards his mouth. I push it down his throat. He slams his teeth on my fingers. Sharp ivories rip the plastic of my gloves and crush against my skin. I pull back my hand with a shout. He spits the slop on my shoes and starts trying to break out again. Oh you fucking asshole. Iโm trying to be nice, Iโm trying to make you understand something. Didnโt anybody teach him to not bite the hand that feeds you? My good hand crashes against his jaw and I kick the chair to make it fall to the floor. His head slams against the cold dirty brown tiles. I take advantage of his position and kick him in the jaw. Once, twice, thrice. Blood splats on my shoe and on my scrubs but I only stop when I hear bones crack under my heel. For a second, I stare at his broken jaw now opened wide. Now he should understand. I stomp to my bag and pull out a metallic feeding pipe that some farmers use to force feed geese. Then, I climb over Wellington and start pushing the pipe against his mouth. When it doesnโt work, I start hitting him with it. A tooth breaks under the metal. Then another. And another until he opens his mouth and I can force the tube down his throat. I donโt care for gurgles or choking or the tears of pain that rolls down his face. I push it until I feel it deep enough and rush over to grab the leftover pouches. One by one, I empty the bags in the tube and watch as he has no choice but to swallow the disgusting slop he fed thousands of creatures with. He starts shaking and trying to vomit the tube, but I keep it planted inside his esophagus with both hands. After a few moments, his eyes roll back and he passes out. Slowly, my breath settles down and I stand up. I donโt think I killed him. The portions were enough for a human stomach to handle. Maybe my intentions are clearer now. Iโll do the rest when he wakes up.
Suddenly, I hear clapping and I jump. I forgot I wasnโt alone. It feels weird. Almost like someone was watching me take a shower.
โWow! That was like watching the Mona Lisa being painted.โ he says. โYouโve got rage, I love it!โ
โThanks.โ I say, embarrassed.
โSay, why donโt you take a break? Heโs unconscious, itโll make the cutting easier.โ
โCome on, sit down, make yourself comfy, Iโll have a proper meal ready in less than an hour.โ
โOkay.โ I sit down in the corner of the room. He grabs a pair of scissors and walks to the body. I watch as he cuts his pant leg above the thigh. He grabs a sharpie and marks the cut. He wraps a tourniquet around his upper thigh and grabs a saw. Slowly, he pushes the blade into the skin. His breath is loud and deep and he seems incredibly focused. He saved some skin to close the wound and he wraps it expertly around the exposed flesh and closes it. Itโs very rudimentary but it can work for the amount of time we need. I wonder where he learnt that. Once he is done, he brandishes the leg as if he just caught a fish. He brings it over to me and grabs a meat carver.
โThis is gonna be good. Just the perfect balance of fat and muscles.โ he says, tracing the bloody cut with his finger. I donโt say anything. He starts carving.
For as long as I can remember, watching anything meat-related has made me want to puke. My mother used to tell me that I started refusing to eat meat after learning where it came from. Once she tried to cook a steak for one of her boyfriends, and I became sick from the smell alone. Not this time. The sectioned nerves and tendons donโt seem disgusting. The still warm muscle and sizzling veins donโt coat my mouth in saliva and turn my stomach. The stranger switches on the stove and throws a few fat pieces inside. I watch the rest in silence. Maybe he speaks as he adds the vegetables in and starts stirring them. If he does, I donโt hear anything. Soon, a pleasant smell fills the room and I feel hungry. I stare at the inside of the pot with an appetite I hadnโt felt in a while.
โI think I should add more paprika. You wanna try?โ he asks. He has lifted his mask. I can see his face again. He looks focused. I lift mine too.
โI donโt know.โ I want to. I want to taste it so badly it worries me but I donโt know if I should.โ As if he wanted to tempt me more, he pulls the wooden spoon to his lips and takes a sip. I must look like a starving stray because he aims the spoon towards my mouth. I part my lips before I can even register he was actually handing me the spoon. He doesnโt question it, though. He feeds me a spoonful of soup. Itโs just as he said. Warm, comforting and nourishing. But knowing what โ or rather who โ is in the soup makes it all better. It must be what it feels to eat something you grow yourself. Itโs the taste of a job well-done. He plunges the spoon in the pot again and fishes two pieces of meat. He grabs one and puts it in his mouth before picking up the other and I open my mouth again like an idiot. His fingers brush against my lips as he places the piece on my tongue. Hesitantly, I bite in it. Warm juices ooze out of the meat and spread into my mouth. The texture is tender, soft and almost melting between my teeth. I forgot the taste of meat long ago and could not compare it to anything, but I know itโs different from anything I tasted before. I chew and chew until the thing loses most of his taste and I swallow, louder than I intended to.
โHow is it?โ he asks.
โI love it.โ I blurt out.
โPaprika-wise, is it good?โ he chuckles.
โOh. I think? I donโt know.โ I shrug.
โWell how do you like paprika?โ
โDonโt judge meโฆ But I donโt season my food very much. Or at all. Besides salt.โ
โItโs always too much or not enough, and when I try to add more it becomes too much, even following instructionsโฆ itโs easier to just not do it.โ
โI see. If you like it like this, I wonโt add any more.โ he says, stirring the pot a little longer. A few moments later, he picks up a bowl and realizes he only brought one. He offers to share the bowl and I accept.
I empty a first bowl, then the stranger has one, then I drink another. It feels like each bite of meat or vegetables is better than the last. Everything was cooked to perfection, and most of all, I could taste passion in every single drop. He teases me on my appetite and I laugh. He says if he had known, he would have brought dessert as well. Perhaps we could go for dessert after this is done. I know Wellington doesnโt have much longer to live, and I donโt feel like ending the night just yet.
โThereโs a dinner not too far away.โ I say. โMaybe I could buy you a milkshake or something. Itโs not as fancy as your dish, but it could be a nice ending to the night.โ The strangerโs face lights up.
โThat would be great.โ he nods. I finish the bowl in front of me and the stranger starts cleaning up and packing cuts of meat in metal boxes filled with ice.
โIs there anything more you want from him?โ I ask.
โI have all the meat I want. I try not to take too much. Itโs not something I eat that often so I take just what I need for a few meals. What else do you have planned?โ
โI had a lot planned, but I got carried away.โ I sigh. โI think Iโll just kill him and get on with the postmortem stuff and cleaning.โ I donโt get angry. Not in my everyday life. Not with my coworkers, not with my mother, not with annoying pet owners, not even with that one kid in vet school who called me slurs every day after he discovered I slept with one of his guy friends. Killing is pretty much the only moment I let everything out. Itโs healthy, I think. Like journaling. Unfortunately, Wellingtonโs case was about a year of pent up anger and I let sudden rage get the best of me. I hope heโs alive. I pull the pipe out of his body. He seems to be breathing.
โAre you sure? We still have time, the milkshakes will still be there in a few hours.โ he insists.
โI think Iโll start while heโs still alive. I have something lying around to wake him up.โ
After a shot of adrenaline, his body jolts up and he starts crying like a baby. Then he notices his missing leg and screams again. I think it finally downs on him that he is not getting out of here. Thatโll make my job easier. The reason why the press went with โThe Taxidermistโ as a nickname for me is because I take almost as much time playing with cadavers as I do making people cadavers. Wellington will be cut and disfigured with untested products like so many of his test subjects. I cut off the manโs shirt and t-shirt to have better access to his stomach. Like my companion, I start marking spots I want to cut. Wellington is quiet. I mark his cheekbones, his stomach, his chinโฆ Then I grab a syringe. I think heโs asking me to kill him but I donโt really hear him. I aim the needle towards the marks. This product is of my own making. I could not write down the recipe, I put pretty much everything I had around me in there. I remember using toothpaste, vegetable broth, some blended mango to give it some fibers and I think I added some artificial fat to keep it together. Of course, the needle had to be bigger than what I usually use. I puncture his cheek and watch his skin form a bump as I push the concoction into him. Itโs not stable enough, it starts running down his face, and soon, the right bottom half of his face is inflated, throbbing and alarmingly red. I do the same on the other side. I take a step back. He looks like a balloon about to burst. I have half a mind to stick another needle in there and see if I can make him burst. But I donโt. Instead, I take a scalpel and aim it at his stomach. Wait. Itโs not fair. I turn to the stranger.
โHow do you usually kill them?โ I ask.
โThey bleed out after a while. Iโve had one die of shock.โ
โOkay.โ I nod. โDo you want to kill him? I mean, youโre here for the same reason I am.โ
โIโm good! Go right ahead.โ
โAre you sure, though? Because I feel like I did most of the work, I wouldnโt want to steal your job. Heโs more your kind of target.โ
โThatโs very kind, but I told you, I have all I need. Iโm happy to just watch.โ
โMaybe we could do it together?โ
โSure. What were you about to do?โ
โJust slice his stomach area until I reach it.โ
Wellington lets out a pig-like wail.
โLet me see his stomach.โ the stranger says. He kneels next to him and starts pinching it and grabbing it. โI think I could do something with that. Tell you what. Iโll show you how to make good cuts of belly, and you help me cut it out. I take it home and we meet again on Sunday. I make a great slow roast. Youโll love it.โ I can feel my mouth salivating at the idea. If we werenโt in a time crunch, Iโd let him cook Wellingtonโs whole body and weโd eat it all together.
โIs it a date?โ I ask.
โIt can be.โ he nods. I smile ear to ear under my mask, but I think he can feel it.
โAnyway, I have only one carving knife, but I think your scalpel will do just fine. Iโll show you.โ
He shows me. My first cut is irregular and clumsy. My hand is usually steady but this is not the kind of cut I am used to. His are smooth and clean, despite his moves looking like a butcherโs. I try to follow his moves as he shows me again. The second cut is clearer, although not perfect. He tells me to not be afraid to go deep. I follow his advice, but my scalpel goes too deep and suddenly, half digested goop starts flowing from his stomach onto my hand, and onto the flesh. I recoil and pull away my scalpel, and so does the stranger.
โShit! Sorry.โ I donโt think we can use that meat now. I wasted it. Iโm supposed to know how to cut something for fuckโs sake.
โNo worries. We have enough for two.โ He says, picking up the pieces we already cut and putting them in another metal box. โIs he dead?โ
โIf heโs not, heโs the strongest one Iโve had yet.โ I say. I stand up. Wellingtonโs head is pale, slumped over his right shoulder. His eyes look weird. I think heโs dead. Still, I take my scalpel and slice his neck ear to ear. Just in case.
I help the stranger put everything in the boxes and once everything is back in the car, we start dousing the place in bleach, body included, from the door to the deeper parts of the factory. I found an old broom in a closet which makes cleaning a lot faster. We quickly get changed and put our clothes in a trash bag for me to burn later.
We get in the car, both reeking of bleach and other cleaning products. My companion switches on the radio and leans into his seat, visibly tired. The night is still dark when we park in front of the dinner. I head inside. Alone. Itโs better if I am not seen with anyone else. I believe the police will quickly realize I wasnโt alone at the crime scene. I come back with two strawberry milkshakes. We stay in the car with the radio on. For a moment, weโre quiet, just sipping out desserts, enjoying a moment of respite. For once, the silence feels too long. I want to speak again. I want to hear him again.
โWhatโs your name?โ I finally ask.
โEd, short for Edmund. Whatโs your name?โ
โNice to meet you, Simon.โ he smiles and hands me a card. โIf you want to call me.โ The card is simple with his name and phone number and a modest โchefโ to indicate his job. His family name is Cassidy. I grab a napkin from the bag and quickly write my own number under a very poorly written โSimon Fosterโ.
We quickly go back to Miss Deluca's house to take back Edmundโs car. We drive mine outside the city, put all my things in his car and set mine on fire. He insists to drive me back to my city. We talk about everything. He has an older sister, Iโm an only child. We both lost our parents young. He likes to read, and puzzles, like me. He likes long walks in the forest and he wants to buy a house with a big garden to grow his own herbs and vegetables. I want to have a few chickens to let run free and a beehive. He asks to check on my fingers, and we both notice a bruise forming where Wellington bit me and he kisses it. I look away so he doesnโt see my reddening face.
He drops me in a random street in my city and we say goodbye. I walk to my practice and put everything in the crematorium before setting it on fire. I stare at the card, waiting for the evidence to turn to ashes. Now that Iโm alone, I let myself giggle and kick my feet replaying the night in my head. I found someone like me. He likes to hear me talk. I like his cooking. He has a sweet smile. Michael, he clinicโs cat heard me coming in. He comes meowing like an alarm and jumps on my lap, angrily begging for head scratches. The only witnesses of my crimes are an old tabby cat, and now Edmund.
I stare at the phone. Heโll probably be home in a few hours. Still, I pick up the phone and dial his number.
โHi Ed, itโs Simon. I hope I donโt come off wrong calling this early after you leftโ I wanted to thank you for tonight. I had a really good time. Iโm looking forward to Sunday. Let me know if you want me to bring wine or something. Bye.โ
