“Hey, just hold up for a sex – sec, big guy, hear me out –” The creaking locker door falters and quietens, Michael’s grip on its handle freezing as he stares down at the caught victim. All is still while he waits, blank and patient, presuming that the offer of a deal is what the man will attempt to strike. It was no small feat to make the act of begging more bereft from dignity than it already was, and his efforts to weasel out of his capture were more pathetic than the other survivors who knew when to give up. What he proposed, now, was reaching a new low. “Why did the scarecrow win an award?” A drawn-out inhalation of humid, plasticated air is the only sound that passes through the closeted space as Michael allows him the delivery of the punchline: “Because he was outstanding in his fiel–” Its final letter dies in his throat as Michael’s hand grips the comedian’s neck in a stranglehold, yanking him out of the locker and suspending him against the sky – equally reflected in its encompassing colour and transparent density through Michael’s stare. The comedian pries at the killer’s fist, blunt nails clawing into a veined wrist, legs kicking wildly as if he’s treading air to remain afloat, but the heels of his Italian-leather boots collide against an immovable figure whose downcast blade slowly rises; a passing, silver-steel glint. Its honed point slides into the dangling body’s abdomen, smoothly piercing soft tissue and organ. The knife slips out of its home, the whisper of the metal muffled between fabric, only to return with a forceful heave – cracking the lowest bar of the body’s ribcage. Blood trickles out of a stabbed lung and warms Michael’s knuckles. When the body finally hangs, lifeless from its noose, the knife retreats backwards and leaves body to fall onto the dirt, crushing reeds of maize underneath its dead weight. The comedian lies in the middle of the cornfield, his silhouette’s shape in the same linear position as an exclamation point – the final punctuated end to his killing joke.
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