A plug of some kind would be just perfect. He tore through cabinets, shuffled through drawers, sliding along the flowing river of blood every step of the way. There was nothing—nothing he could use to stop this and already he’d reached the edge of sanity. Just when he was certain he’d be swimming in it, he tore an empty beer bottle from the overflowing garbage can and shoved the mouth end into the volcanic eruption. In an instant the bottle filled, but the fountain stopped.
When it was all over and Arnie was certain he could breathe easily, he belly-laughed. How could he not? It was the craziest thing he’d ever seen in his whole damn life.
And now here he stood, his body, his floor, his kitchen quite literally covered in blood. The trailer looked like a fucking slaughterhouse. It was gonna be a bitch to clean this. He sighed.
“Damn, woman,” he spat, giving her left tit a slap. “You’s more trouble than you’s worth.”
He turned on his heels, preparing to spend the rest of the night scrubbing and mopping this shithole until it sparkled.
A sparkling shithole. That made him smile.
He started for the sink, but his left foot went out from under him. Against the linoleum, he landed flat on his back, head smacking the tile as it landed.
And there he slept until the sun came up.
* * * *
It was just past ten when Nora woke, sticky with both her sweat and Lander’s. His warm and dripping gut was nearly flat against her back, his hot breath in her ear, his poor excuse for an erection between her legs.
Disgusted, she shoved him aside and climbed out of bed and made a mad dash for the bathroom. She took a cold shower that both cleansed and refreshed her.
Dressed in only an oversized t-shirt and flip-flops, she stepped outside and fell into a folding chair. The humidity this morning was just about god-awful. It hurt just to breathe. Hand over eyes squinting through the burning sun, she examined her surroundings. The trailer park stood eerily quiet and calm. Only the faint rumble and roar of a generator somewhere out of view.
A cup of coffee would’ve been nice about then, but she didn’t want to risk waking Lander. Instead, she decided to enjoy the peace and solitude while she could and figured he’d make a fresh pot whenever he decided to peel his fat ass out of bed.
Not far from where she sat, Nora heard what sounded like a slamming door. Then what could’ve been a bag of rocks hitting the dirt. Remembering the scream she’d heard the night before, she stood and flicked the cigarette. Careful not to make a sound, she kicked off her flip-flops and tiptoed around the trailer, never minding the dirt clinging to the damp soles of her bare feet.
She was less than fifty feet from home when she heard the low grumbling of a deep, hoarse male voice. Eyes wide with focus, she poked her head around a corner and saw a very large man dragging something—something wrapped in a blue tarp—from the front door of a nearby trailer. He muttered a few choice words of obscenity and pulled with all his strengths. Grunting, he lifted the bag of goodies into the back of a pickup. As Nora felt her heart race with excitement, she watched him climb inside the driver’s seat and peel away.
With a smirk, she stepped out of hiding and tentatively approached the trailer. There was so much going through her mind as she took each step one at a time, turning over her left shoulder every so often to see if anyone was watching. So many thoughts that all seemed to blend together, creating one distorted mass of imagery. Thoughts of what—or who—could’ve been wrapped in that tarp. Thoughts of the stranger dragging it off and who he may have been. Thoughts of Lander. Thoughts of the new life she’d been hoping for for quite some time.
She didn’t know why, but she tried the door. Locked, of course. If it had been open, she wondered if she would’ve had the nerve to step inside—and what she may have found when she did.
Two steps from the door, she stood on the tips of her toes to peer inside the window, which she noticed had been left open. As a matter of fact, it looked like all of the windows in the trailer had been left open—all covered by rusted screens, too. Peering from left to right, she didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. But the aroma of ammonia and bleach was overwhelming. Beneath that was the resonance of something lemon-scented. Probably some other cleaning product. The smell was so strong it burned her lungs. As though the entire trailer had been hosed down with Clorox. She had to turn away.
An involuntary giggle escaped her and it was because she knew. Arching an eyebrow, she lowered her gaze to the trail of dirt leading to where his pickup was once parked. The trail he’d made only moments prior when he’d dragged that tightly wrapped package from the trailer. Again, her heart raced. She hadn’t felt this way in years. What she needed right now was a cigarette. Turning to skip her way home, she stopped when she felt the moisture beneath her right foot. Her eyes fell on the small pool of red.
“Careful now,” she sang to herself, knowing it must’ve leaked out of the tarp on the way to the truck. “Careful, careful.”
Using her hand, she knelt down to slide a mountain of dirt atop his little slip-up, figuring it was the least she could do. And with that, she headed home.
* * * *
“You’re only playin’ two chords, ya know,” he said, just before taking another sip from his beer bottle. Two chords—the same two chords she’d been playing since he picked her up—were slowly but surely driving him insane. E-minor and A-major, the easiest of all acoustic guitar chords. He learned that ages ago, when he first picked up the instrument.
Finally, she stopped. Smiled. But didn’t put the instrument down. The head stretched mere centimeters from his own and each time the truck passed over a bump, the pointed end grazed his cheek or poked his ear. That, along with her constant strumming, had almost pushed him over the edge.
He was on his way home from the bar when he saw her hitching. Quite a surprise that he’d come across another so soon. As he watched her climb aboard the cabin, guitar and all, he thought of the last. The last, as she lay wrapped in a tarp, rotting in a cornfield. And how much he enjoyed her cold, dead flesh—definitely more than he thought he would’ve.
This one was rather petite. Not as pretty as the last. Plain. Kinda bookish. Glasses. Slightly hooked nose. Thin lips. Small tits. Even still, he invited her inside. It was probably the half-dozen beers he’d had that night that made him so optimistic about this one. Probably the half-dozen beers that, too, killed his patience.
“Where ya from?” he said. Another bump and the guitar head poked him right in the cheekbone. Hurt, too. Another inch and it could’ve taken out his eye.
“Dallas,” she said, eyes straight ahead. She didn’t seem to notice the close call. Didn’t appear to notice all the other times the instrument jabbed him, either.
“Where ya headin’?”
“Nashville. On my way to visit the fam.”
He winced at her use of the phrase “the fam,” noticing the twang in her voice for the first time.
Using only her fingers, she began to strum once more—strum the same damn chords. While Arnie thought of jamming the brakes, sending her through the glass the same way he had the last. But he feared the guitar might break her flight. And he’d just gotten the windshield fixed this morning. He’d have to figure another way.
“Where are you from?” she said.
Her voice was soft and sweet, kind and gentle, her question completely innocent. But even still, it gave him a start. He wasn’t expecting she’d take a personal interest. Who would’ve thought she gave a shit?
“I’m from right here,” he said, flashing her a big ole toothy grin before downing the last gulp of beer in the bottle. Left arm swung through the open window as he tossed the empty into the black night. Watching it spin and sail towards the clouds above, he regretted the motion, realizing only too late that he could’ve used it on her.
A few quick strums of A-major before she spoke again. “How’d you trash your windshield?”
This gave him another start. Leaning
towards the six-pack at her feet, he froze mid-reach. “What’s that?”
“The windshield. How’d you break it?”
“I … hit a deer.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t see many deer out this way.”
“I see plenty.”
“Do you?”
“I do. How’d you know about the windshield?” Beer in-hand, he eyed the tiptop job the boys at the garage did just that morning, feeling a twisting knot form in his stomach.
Turning towards him almost flirtatiously, her eyes sparkled. “I’m psychic,” she said.
He twisted the cap off the bottle. Offered a dubious smirk. “Really.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t like that. Didn’t like it one bit. As he drank, she gave him an innocent smile while he gave her the side-eye.
And then she let out a high-pitched squeak of a laugh. “I’m just funnin’ ya, teddy bear!” she cried, giving his shoulder a playful nudge. “I saw the invoice.” She motioned toward the folded piece of yellow paper resting on the dashboard with a simple lift of her chin. When the smile faded, she gave him a wink and went back to practicing her chords.
The same two chords.
The same fucking two chords.
And inside, he seethed.
Another bump and another cheek-poke.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Patience lost completely, he floored the brake and the truck came to a jarring stop. The guitar slipped from her lap and just as she turned to face him, he slapped her over the head with the half-full bottle in his right hand. Slapped her hard. Slapped her to just shut her the fuck up already.
The bottle broke and drops of silver and gold rained down upon them both. For an instant, her eyes sprang open wide, then closed as she fell forward. Gripping her by the shoulder, he stopped her before she hit the dash. Lips pursed, eyes focused, he grasped her head in both hands, held on tight, and twisted. One final jolt of tension shot through her body before she went limp completely.
Ready to roll, Arnie allowed himself only a few breaths and a short moment to regain his bearings before he cracked another beer and peeled away.
* * * *
Another night, another ball game.
Lander sat snoring in front of the television while Nora paced the trailer. She’d spent the day chain-smoking and watching the window while Lander merely lazed about. Several times he’d asked her what she was looking for and “nothing” was not an answer he was willing to accept. So, Nora told him her sister might be paying them a visit. That seemed to suit Lander just fine. He enjoyed leering at Nora’s younger, but equally attractive sister quite a bit and when he learned she was on her way, he smiled, eased back in his seat, and shoved a hand behind the waistband of his pants.
For Nora, the day was long and endless. She couldn’t tear herself away from the window. Couldn’t relax long enough to enjoy the peace when Lander actually left her alone. Couldn’t stop the wheels inside her head from turning.
“Babe?” Lander called, then paused to clear the phlegm from his throat. “Hey, babe?”
Worn and irritable, Nora turned from the window and faced him. “What is it.”
“Grab me another beer?”
She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray and made her way over to the fridge. When the door swung open and the coolness inside swathed her, she heard the sound of a roaring engine and of heavy tires crushing dirt. Mouth agape, eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, she listened closely and smiled when she was certain of what she heard.
With an anxious and impatient hand, she reached inside, grasped a sweaty bottle, and slammed the door shut. “Here, last one,” she cried, already out of breath as she dropped the bottle into her husband’s lap and raced for the door.
Stepping out into the humidity of a scorching August night, she tiptoed away from the trailer, still managing to hear Lander mutter something about her being crazier than a shit-house rat, an expression she never quite understood.
The same way she had that morning, she crept her way through the park, pausing every few paces to glimpse over her shoulder or listen with intent. When she saw the truck pull up and park outside the trailer, she took in what would be the last breath she’d allow herself to take until she was certain he was in for the night. Squinting, peeking, hidden from view, she watched until the driver’s side door creaked open and out he stepped. In his arms, cradled and comforted like a little baby, he held a young girl—a young girl most probably would assume was sleeping. But Nora knew better.
Rushing and unbalanced, he unlocked the door and rushed inside. Before Nora had the time to wonder why he’d left the truck open and unattended, he came racing outside and back into the driver’s seat. There was a moment or two of fumbling inside before he resurfaced, carrying a six-pack and an acoustic guitar.
Brow tight, eyes glazed over, Nora watched as he locked the truck and did a little spin on the dirt before heading back inside. Over to the windows would’ve been her first move, if only he hadn’t closed all the blinds. She could hear them rattle where she stood.
A sharp scraping rung loud in her ears and she realized only then that she’d been clawing at the rusted trailer she’d been hiding behind. Flecks of brown were now embedded beneath her fingernails and though she tried, they were impossible to remove.
“Damn,” she huffed, defeated.
She folded both arms, threw her back against the wall, and wished she’d brought her cigarettes.
* * * *
Arnie couldn’t believe he’d gotten it in past the sixth fret. And he wasn’t finished. No, sir. Putting all of his weight behind the guitar, he opened her legs just a bit wider, and pushed with everything he had in him. He could hear and feel parts of her shifting and tearing inside. Things breaking and crumbling beneath the force of the guitar neck. What a sight it would be if he pushed hard enough and deep enough to pop her head clean off. That would sure as shit be a Kodak moment.
He let out his trademark laugh—the laugh he was known for all his life—and prepared himself for the hardest, meanest thrust of all.
But stopped when he caught sight of her lady bits.
How the hell was he supposed to get his nut now?
She was torn up something awful down there. He’d be slipping and sliding out of that mess all night.
And just like that his joy dissipated. Sure, fun was fun, but what was the point of it all without the main event?
Finger-picking six strings soaked with various fluids, he gave himself a moment’s rest. A minute to decide what would come next—what and how.
And then he remembered something.
A fantasy he’d had for quite a while. Something he’d wanted to do, but hadn’t yet had the opportunity.
He decided that now was the time. Yessir. Now was the time, this was the place, and it was gonna be good. Man, oh man, was it gonna be good.
He clapped both hands with delight, then drummed them against the smooth surface of the guitar and gave the strings a few quick strums. With a skip and a twirl, he trotted on over to the kitchen counter, pulled open the drawer top left, and plucked a butter knife from the clutter of steel. Sauntering back over to her, he whistled a damn fine rendition of Jimmy Crack Corn.
When her head was in the perfect position, he dug the butter knife in. With full force, he pushed it deep, the entrance by the crease of her left eye. A little twist here, a little pull there, and the eye came loose, still dangling by its stem. Scissors handy, he snipped it free and laughed when unfamiliar fluids started to leak. They were good and slimy. Would make one hell of a lube. Yessir.
With pleasure and glee, he tossed the eyeball into the air and caught it, considering removing its mate so he could juggle the slippery orbs. Wouldn’t that be a sight?
But maybe later. Now, there was some business to attend to.
“Yee-haw!” he hollered and tossed the eye over his shoulder. With a clunk, it lande
d in a glass of water by the sink and floated.
He pulled off his sweaty and malodorous t-shirt and tossed it aside. Rubbed his nipples in anticipation. Both eyes fixed on the gaping, leaking, oozing hole, he unfastened his belt. Reaching inside his pants and—
There came a knock on the door.
Startled, he didn’t know what to do. And so he did nothing, standing there stiff with a hand in his pants, face blank. He considered just waiting it out, but they knocked again, harder and faster. Five times in rapid succession.
“Damnit,” he grumbled, buttoning his pants and throwing the shirt back over his shoulders.
He breathed in and opened the door, but only a very slim crack. His nighttime playmate lay only a few feet behind him.
When his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside, he grinned, liking what he saw.
“Hi there,” she said. “I’m Nora. I live just a few trailers down. So sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could have just a minute or two of your time? I’m having a problem and I think you might be able to help.”
Less than enthused, his features dropped and instantly, his hesitancy became visible.
“This’ll only take a second, I promise,” she said, not giving him the opportunity to say no just yet.
He sighed. “Hang on a sec.” He slammed the door and reached for his keys. Wondered what he was going to do with her. A touch of sadness fell over him and he thought of all the things he could do with her—all the things he was about to do with her—had he not been bothered.
But he’d get to that. What mattered now was hiding her. When he saw the light switch, he chuckled to himself and flicked it. Darkness. She was gone—or at least it appeared as such.
When he opened the door, he once again found this strange woman—Nora, he thought she said her name was—waiting for him oh so patiently. His eyes shot up and down her slender figure, positive she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that oversized t-shirt.
“Right this way.” She led him through the near-pitch darkness and around a bend, the chirp of crickets all around them and the smell of burning charcoal resonating. The sights, sounds, and smells of summer were everywhere.
The Death Panel Page 7