by Jack Bantry
“Want me to stab him?”
“No sweetie. He’ll be dead soon. Maybe this time he’ll stay dead.”
“Stay dead?” Sarah asked. “Since when is that a problem?”
Rachael smiled at the girl, pleased that she’d been made more in her mother’s ways than in her father’s. Better that the child had talents not afforded her through traditional parentage. The child might have been six chronologically, but she was well beyond her years. Just like her mamma.
The overhead fluorescent lights flickered.
Rachael glanced at the ceiling and ignored the light. She extended her hand. “Well, your father died once before. Or so I thought. When you were born he tried to kill you, and I threw him out a window. I didn’t stick around to see if he’d survived. I guess I should have.”
The child tittered and took her mother’s hand. “Looks dead now.”
Rachael smiled. The light flickered again and made a buzzing sound like a bug zapper. “Almost dead. Come on, let’s get out of here before the bulb blows.”
The room they left was windowless and door-less, save for the door they now exited.
But the room they entered was also without windows and doors. Rachael slowly circled the room, panic setting in just slightly, but it was forming as a solid mass in her chest.
She ran around the room looking for another exit, a door, a closet, a sink—anything. “What the hell is this?” she said, hands running over a smooth wall that clearly didn’t belong in the basement. She recognized the foreign odour she had earlier smelled on Daniel: plaster.
She searched for a tool, something she could use to smash the wall but found nothing.
The cement had already hardened to a point where bare hands were useless.
In a far corner of the room was a bucket filled with hardening cement, resting beside an old mop bucket.
Daniel had walled them in.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked. “Where’s the door?”
Rachael ignored the child, her mind wandering, thoughts scattered, nerves unravelling. “He planned this… knew all along what he was doing.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked again.
Rachael ran back into the other room and searched for an exit. Sarah followed closely, and Rachael wheeled around and pulled the girl into her arms. She looked from one side of the room to the other for a source of light or air—a crack in the walls, a sliver of sun.
Nothing.
“Oh God,” she moaned, and slumped to the floor, pulling Sarah into her lap. Her wounded thigh screamed with the movement but she ignored it. There were worse things to worry about.
Sarah was crying, though Rachael guessed it was more from seeing Rachael’s fear than out of truly understanding what a mess they were in. Then again, Sarah wasn’t like other kids. She probably realized more than Rachael knew.
“I wanna go home now,” Sarah said, clinging to Rachael’s neck.
Daniel blinked at them and smiled.
The overhead light flickered and then faded, and it seemed to both drown out and absorb their screams.
Ginsu Gary
by
Ryan C. Thomas
“So, like, what…you’re just gonna take the body somewhere and bury it?”
Ginsu Gary stares back at the small effete man standing in the corner. The man wears a tan suite pollocked with the deceased’s brains. His shoulders are hunched, head hanging low, like he’s trying to compact himself. Like a little boy acting coy, he scuffs his feet against the hardwood floor, then takes out a cigarette and lights it up. “Stupid fucker gave me a hard time. I was hoping he’d take his lumps like a man. Guess they never do, huh?”
Ginsu Gary surveys the scene. One dead double-crossing thief and former employee of the Bernardo Family sits tied to a chair, fingers smashed by a hammer, eyes black from a broken nose, one well-placed bullet in his head.
“I don’t bury, sir,” says Ginsu Gary, “I clean. Is this his house? It’s dirty.”
The smoking man looks around the dilapidated living room. There is nothing much to speak of beyond a couch, a TV, and a throw rug that might have once been completely white but now looks like cow hide thanks to a dozen brown stains.
“Of course it’s his house. You think I’d do it at my place? Boss said to get this done ASAP. I didn’t have time to drag him to the woods or nothing. Shitty place, huh? Guy’s wife left him years ago, guess she took the home furnishings with her too. Bitches will do that. Think they own everything. What are you doing?”
Ginsu Gary sets a black alligator skin suitcase down on the floor, opens it up and reaches inside. From within he removes a large steel knife that catches the light of the wan overhead bulb. He removes a clear plastic sheath from the blade, tosses that back in the suitcase. The knife is big, would probably do well against a samurai attack. The bare steel catches the light again and throws stars onto the walls. He removes a black shammy from the suitcase, cleans the blade for good measure, stuffs it in his pocket, and approaches the dead man.
“You know what this guy did?” asks Smoking Man. “I’ll tell you what he did. Boss has him deliver those packages to the Minnie Mouse Crew down in National City, you know. He brings the stuff, they push it, gets himself a courier’s cut and all that. For every twenty packages he gets down there, Boss lets him play the tables at the Mai Tai Room…on the house. Thing is, ol’ Georgie here had himself a real gambling problem. Only Boss doesn’t know that. He just thinks he’s being a generous employer letting Georgie into the back rooms where the big money is on the table. But that’s not my point—whoa! You gonna do that right here?”
Ginsu Gary places the butcher’s knife against Georgie’s throat and begins making mental assessments about where to make his cuts. “Yes. Don’t worry, sir, this will just take a moment. Do you have a moment, sir?”
“Yeah. You want a tarp or something? That’s gonna be messy.”
“Do I look like I’d leave a mess here?” Ginsu Gary smiles wide, exposing snow white teeth that are perfectly symmetrical. “No, sir, I won’t. But it’s okay, I understand your worry. ‘Who’s this guy,’ you’re asking. ‘Who’s this guy acting like he knows stuff.’ I get that a lot.” He chuckles and dips his head in a friendly acknowledging manner. “No, sir, you are in good hands. This is why I’m here. You were saying?”
“Yeah right. So Georgie develops himself a nice little gambling problem, and decides he’s gonna lift every tenth package or so. I mean, he’s the only liaison to the Minnies so how’s the boss gonna find out if he don’t tell on himself. But Boss ain’t stupid, you know. Hell I was just gonna tell him to take the money back, but the fucker goes and gets pushy with me. Dumb motherfucker. So I call Boss and he says just do the guy already, that’s he’s done with him anyway.”
Ginsu Gary places one hand on dead Georgie’s head, and tilts it back to better expose the neck. With a gentle, almost graceful move, he places the knife once again against Georgie’s neck. “Do you have knives in your home, Mr.…”
“Hey oh. No names.”
“What can I call you then?” Ginsu Gary glances sideways, waiting for an answer.
Smoking Man considers his options. “How about Mr. Kent. Kind of a Superman fan.”
“Well who isn’t. Let me ask you again, Mr Kent, do you have knives in your home?”
“Yeah, sure, why?”
“What would you say if I told you this knife could cut through bone and still stay sharp enough to carve a roast right after.”
This makes Mr Kent laugh, pull on his cigarette, which smokes in blue hues. Somewhere outside in the night, a siren dopplers by without further thought. Kent looks to the window and studies the closed blinds, then returns his smile to Ginsu Gary. “I’d say you’ve got yourself a good knife, I guess.”
“It’s not just a good knife, Mr Kent, it’s a Carving Cobra C-100. Let me show you how well it works. Can I do that for you?”
“Hey, man, please do. I gotta get this taken care and g
et back to the Boss’s place to figure out how we’re gonna deal with the MInnies now, who waited this fucking long to tell us they were getting stiffed. You’d think those slit-eyed Tokyo drifting motherfuckers woulda spoken up sooner. Yakuza my ass. They know shit about business. Course they ain’t Yakuza for real, but you get my vibe.”
“If you’ll notice, the C-100 Carving Cobra is made of one hundred percent American stainless steel. See how easy it slices through the bone.” Ginsu Gary draws the blade across Georgie’s neck and a torrent of blood spurts forth like ejaculate. Somehow, it misses getting on Ginsu Gary’s blue button down shirt. “You’d think the bone would be a problem, Mr Kent, but not for the Carving Cobra C-100. See how it slips right through the vertebrae in just one…two...”
Mr Kent turns away, disgusted and nearly drops his cigarette. “Oh man, that’s gross. Sheesh, I thought you was joking. Thought you was gonna bag him up and move him first. Oh fuck. I’m gonna lose my lunch.”
“I understand, Mr Kent, this is not what you were expecting. But I assure you the Carving Cobra C-100 makes this job much easier than any ordinary store-bought knife. It really is the only knife you’ll ever need. It isn’t sold in stores and it isn’t even advertised. The brand relies on personal demonstration to get its name out. And I’m happy to tell you about it. Just one more cut here and…ah….there we go.” There is a slight crack and Ginsu Gary holds dead Georgie’s head in his hands, smiles at the opaque, chalk white eyes. “A nice clean cut. That’s what the Carving Cobra C-100 can do.”
Mr Kent winces at the sight, does his best to settle his stomach by taking another drag on his cigarette. “Dude, please, just put it in a bag or something.”
Instead, Ginsu Gary places the head on the floor, where it stares at the baseboards with wild boredom. The small black cloth appears from Ginsu Gary’s pocket, which he uses to wipe the blood off the blade until there is no trace it was ever used. “Would you say this is one of the most efficient knives you’ve ever seen, Mr Kent?”
“What? Yeah sure. Great knife. Man, there’s blood everywhere.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Kent, I’ll take care of that in a second. Now I ask you, how much would you expect to pay for a knife like the Carving Cobra C-100.”
“Huh? Are you serious?”
Ginsu Gary turns the blade in his hand so it glimmers. “Very serious. How much would you pay? Similar retail models go for up to five hundred dollars. That’s a pretty steep price for a knife, wouldn’t you say.”
“No shit? Well, I guess that is a good price, considering the fucking thing just sawed through a neck bone in—“
“In two strokes. Yes, Mr Kent, this is the knife you want, nay, the knife you’ll desire, for any situation. Want to know a secret? The Carving Cobra C-100 is only ninety-nine ninety-nine. Would you say that’s a fair price for this knife?”
Mr Kent tilts his head. This creepy cleaner really likes his knife, he thinks. He checks his watch, sees it’s almost 2am, knows he needs to get to the bosses in about thirty minutes. “Um, yeah, like I said, great price. Hey, can we hurry this up. Boss is expecting me.”
“Sure, Mr Kent. But can I show you one more thing? It’ll only take a second, I promise. I can demonstrate right here on…George, did you say his name was.”
“Whatever, yeah, just do what you gotta do. But hurry there’s blood pooling around his head there and I’m two seconds away from getting sick here. ”
“I understand, Mr Kent. Now if you’ll notice, the Carving Cobra C-100 also comes with a tiny hook on the end of the handle. See it?”
“Yeah. Great.”
“Go ahead and hold the knife, Mr Kent. Feel how well balanced it is in your hand.” Ginsu Gary hands the knife to Mr Kent, handle first of course. With slight confusion, Mr Kent hefts the knife, feeling a little stupid but trying to be as accommodating as he can to the man who was sent here to dispose of his kill. Before he can comment on the knife’s centre of gravity, which is admittedly quite impressive, Ginsu Gary is smiling his wide smile just inches away from his face. “Feels good in your hand, doesn’t it, Mr Kent. That’s because the Carving Cobra C-100 actually was designed with ergonomic precision to eliminate wrist pain over long periods of use. Now would you say this is a knife worth its price?”
“Sure man, whatever.” Mr Kent hands the knife back. Ginsu Gary wipes the handle with his little black cloth and returns his stare to the decapitated body in the chair.
“Now what I want to show you, Mr Kent, is just what that hook is good for. Naturally you can use it to hang the knife in your kitchen, but you’ve had times when you’re cooking something and it’s hot and you don’t want to burn your hands, correct? Well watch this.” Ginsu Gary grips the knife firmly, sets his jaw, and punches Georgie’s stomach. The blade slips right in and his hand explodes into the organs, which sends globs of ichor all over the walls, including a few bits which add to the collection of death on Mr Kent’s suit. With a mighty yank, he pulls his hand out, along with a section of intestine that is now clasped firmly in the tiny hook on the knife.
“Hey oh, you’re making more of a mess. God, I don’t need to see that.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Kent, I’ll clean it up, it’s my job. Now do you see how easy it was to get these parts out of there? Imagine if this body is on fire and you needed to get in there to grab these parts. You’d burn yourself trying to yank them out, because as you know they can be quite slippery. But with the little hook here all you have to grasp is the handle of the Carving Cobra C-100, which is made of dimpled Cherrywood, and let the hook catch its quarry. Do your knives at home have this function, Mr Kent?”
“No they don’t. I guess.”
“No, I bet they don’t. But the Carving Cobra C-100 does. It truly is the only knife you’ll ever need.”
With a gruff exhale, Mr Kent stubs his cigarette out on the ground. “Hey no offence, Gary-whatever-your-name-is, but I don’t care about the knife that much. Can we just finish this? I gotta get going. Let’s just wrap him up and I’ll help you get him to your trunk and you can take him wherever and finish up. As it is we’re gonna need to get this blood off the floor and that’s gonna take at least…however long that takes. I mean, you got bleach and acid and shit in there, right? We can clean this up? Like now.”
“I understand, Mr Kent, just let me finish this last demonstration and we’ll move on. I think you’ll be quite impressed with how fast the Carving Cobra C-100 can complete this entire job for you. How long would you say it would normally take to dice up George here?”
“Oh Christ, I dunno, I don’t care.”
“Would you say it would take an hour?”
“Fucking-A dude, whatever, sure, like an hour?”
“A fair assessment, yes. Most jobs like this require an hour or more. But not with the Carving Cobra C-100. Observe.” With a cock of his head, Ginsu Gary takes a little hop forward to the headless body and makes several emphatic slashes.
For a moment, Mr Kent doesn’t think the cleaner has even touched the body what with the way his swings meet no resistance. But when Ginsu Gary steps back, smiling, Mr Kent watches the body come apart like crumbing pie crust. Hands and feet and arms and legs and torso and elbows and thighs and pelvis just slip apart from each other and collect on the floor. “See how fast that was!” exclaims Ginsu Gary. “Only the Carving Corba—”
“Fuck! Jesus, dude, that’s disgusting! Ugh. And enough with the knife already. Christ what a mess. Now I’m never gonna get out of here. How are we gonna get all this blood up!”
“Not to worry, Mr. Kent, I’ll take care of it. Just give me your honest thoughts on the Carving Cobra C-100. Would you say it’s the only knife you’ll ever need, based on what you just saw?”
Trying his best to hide his annoyance, Mr Kent smiles through gritted teeth. “Honestly, yes, the knife is fucking amazing. Can we just—”
“Would you like to buy one?”
“What’re you…trying to sell me knives?”
&
nbsp; “Only if you want one. There is a special going on today for just eighty-nine ninety nine.”
“Bro, no, I don’t want your knife. Clean this horror show up, please! Now!”
“Can I ask why. Is it not in your budget?”
“Dude! I don’t need a knife. I don’t clean bodies. Get me. I don’t need to cut marble and tin cans in my kitchen. I microwave hot dogs for dinner. Now I need you to clean up the massacre you just created so I can get to the Boss.”
“Fair enough. Like I said, I will take care of it. Just keep thinking about that deal, I think you’ll see it’s a fair deal. Let me just get something out of my suitcase.”
Squatting down, Ginsu Gary replaces the knife in the suitcase and begins taking out several long metallic pieces of something unknown. Like an excited child assembling Lego, he fits one piece after another together, building some kind of contraption, snapping pieces in place and locking joints together. Meanwhile, Mr Kent takes a few steps towards the couch to avoid the blooming lake of blood on the hardwood floor. When Gary stands up again, he has in fact assembled a gleaming, metallic vacuum.
“You gotta be shitting me,” says Mr Kent.
“Allow me to introduce you to the Kurbee K-10 Vacuum.”
“Dude, tell me you’re not gonna vacuum the rugs.”
“Of course not. Not yet anyway. First let me ask you, do you have a vacuum at home?”
“Oh for the love of God, yes I do. And it works fine. But I supposes you’re gonna show me how this one is better. Right? C’mon man, it’s getting late.”
Just then Mr Kent’s cell rings. He holds a finger up to shush the cleaner and hears Boss’s voice on the other end asking him numerous questions. He does his best to keep up and give reasonable answers. “Yes, Boss. I know. Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I know. Yeah the cleaner is here now. A little weird? Hah! You’re telling me. Weird is an understatement. The guy belongs in infommercials. No, yeah, he’s fine. I’m just watching him take care of it all. Okay, I’ll get outta here quick as I can.” He hangs up the phone, points to the cleaner. “Boss is getting pissy. We really gotta finish up here so if you’re gonna suck up hair and skin cells let’s get to it, though I personally don’t have any kind of record on file, so…”