All Kinds of Things Kill

by Robert R. Best

  All Kinds of Things Kill

  Robert R. Best

  The Stories

  The Hooker

  The Wife's Confession

  Nipping It In The Bud

  Charity And The Vampire

  The Family Tree

  Everything That's Damaged

  Get Together

  All Kinds Of Things Kill

  Boil Order

  The Hooker

  Bob liked hookers. With a good-sized deep freeze and the right seasoning, one could last for months. And they were so easy to find, lined up along the street like hot dog vendors. Or rather, like the hot dogs themselves.

  He chuckled at his joke as he slowly drove up the neon-lit street, looking for a good specimen. The street was wet from a recent rain. Garish red neon spilled long trails of crimson light across the wet pavement. As if advertising the wet red innards of the women standing by the curb.

  Some of the women were still young and beautiful. Fresh. Much fresher than Bob. Bob knew he wasn’t much to look at, with his greasy flat hair, thick glasses and pock-marked skin. But he also knew if he claimed to have money, one would get in the car. And once she was in the car, money would cease to be an issue.

  Bob knew what you might say – hookers are for boners, not eating. But eating a hooker got Bob hard. So hard he could come just from the feel of their flesh in his mouth. And he would savor them. Much more than the other guys, who would be done in ten minutes. He’d be much more appreciative, and the hookers would still serve their usual purpose, as he came in his pants time and time again.

  He passed many women by. Tight shirts and long legs. Heavy makeup and teased hair. A few sashayed toward the car, hoping to entice, but he ignored them. He was looking for something particular. Something he couldn’t verbalize. He liked to think he had a knack for picking girls, so he went with his gut. And intended the pun.

  Then he saw her. Big curly blonde hair. A round, plump face. Tight, sparkling clothes barely concealing big boobs and a bigger butt. Lots of meat. She was a buffet on legs.

  She was looking away at something, popping gum in her round mouth, when his headlights hit her. She looked toward him and smiled. He stopped the car just across from her.

  Her smile grew and she clattered her high heels over to him. He leaned across the seat to roll down the passenger window. She leaned in and the smell of her gum wafted in after her.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” she said. All the other girls vanished from Bob’s mind. She’d be perfect. “Looking for some fun?”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Bob.

  She giggled. “You got the money?”

  “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Never was much for window shopping.”

  She giggled again and reached inside the car to pop up the lock. She opened the door, climbed inside, and shut it.

  “Name’s Bubbles,” she announced. “Where we going?”

  Bubbles?, thought Bob. You have got to be shitting me. “Old Johnston Park.” It was a good spot for bagging meat. Lots of trees. Lots of seclusion. Sometimes he’d even had time to sample some first-fruits of his labors while still in the car. Chewing and tasting their sweet juices while the heat from their guts steamed the windshield. And no one suspected a thing. Steamed windows were common in Old Johnston Park. So much so it was called by another name.

  “Lover’s Park?” said Bubbles. “Oooh, how romantic.”

  Bob nodded and started driving. He guided them away from the bright red light of Hooker Row, as some locals called it, to darker streets. With each block that ticked by, the lights became gradually less. Their seclusion was growing.

  Bubbles flipped down the mirror in the passenger visor and started checking her hair. She adjusted her ample breasts and ran a finger over her teeth.

  Bob ran his tongue over his top lip. He did his best to remain calm. He had to still appear normal. They weren’t secluded enough yet. “Say, Bubbles?” he said.

  “Yeah?” she said, snapping the visor back up. She wrinkled her nose as a thought seemed to occur to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Bob.”

  She nodded. “Okay. What is it, Bob?”

  “Could you grab me that bag in the back seat?”

  She craned her neck around to look. Bob gifted himself with a glance at the meat she revealed. “Sure,” she said. She reached back and brought a duffle bag into the font. She rested it on her knees and raised an eyebrow at Bob. “So what’s in it? Toys? Are you kinky, Bob?” She smiled and started to undo the zipper.

  “No peeking,” said Bob, snatching the bag from her. He put it in his lap and enjoyed the weight. “It’ll be a surprise.”

  And it would be. The bag held various implements Bob liked to use on his hookers. Knives, scissors, a screwdriver, whatever might strike his fancy. There was even an old scalpel he’d stolen from a hospital. They each had a feel all their own, and interacted with the meat in their own wonderful ways.

  Bob felt an erection growing. They were in a residential area now. The occasional lamp post or porch provided the only light. More seclusion. They were over half of the way to the park.

  With his salivating thoughts and growing erection, Bob stopped paying attention to the speedometer. He was gripping the bag tight and thinking of slicing when an explosion of blue and red light came from behind. A siren blared.

  “Shit,” said Bubbles, turning around to look. “Cops are bad, Bob. You’ve got to be more careful.”

  And Bob wanted to slice her mouth from nose to chin. Make a bloody cross of her lips and shut her up good. But he restrained himself. He grumbled and pulled the car over.

  The cop's horrible lights chased Bob's seclusion away. It felt like forever, sitting there staring at the flashing in the rear-view mirror and waiting. Finally a shape emerged from the lights and approached them. Bob rolled down his window as the shape resolved into a cop.

  The cop turned out to be a woman with a lean face and long brown hair. Her breasts bulged under her brown shirt. Bob thought how nice it would be to slice off a breast and eat, but he knew better. Cop meat was too risky.

  “I'm afraid you were speeding, sir,” said the cop, getting out her ticket pad.

  “A temporary lapse,” said Bob. “Won't happen again.”

  “See that it doesn't,” said the cop. She took her time writing the ticket. Come on, thought Bob. Hurry. Finally she yanked the ticket free and handed it to him. As she leaned over to do it, her eyes fell on Bubbles.

  “Who's this?”

  Bob started to sweat. If he was arrested for soliciting a prostitute, that would be bad. They might search his bag, his trunk, eventually his apartment. And that would be very bad.

  “My niece,” he said, hoping the cop couldn't see the beads of moisture on his forehead.

  The cop looked at him, then back at Bubbles. Bob could see her eyes going over Bubbles' outfit. The cop frowned.

  Bubbles laughed. “Yeah. Uncle Bob had to come 'rescue' me from this bitchin' party. He's such a bore.”

  Bob shrugged and smiled. “Kids.”

  The cop slowly nodded and stepped back. “Well, drive slower from now on, okay?”

  “Will do,” said Bob.

  The cop nodded again and walked back to her car. Bob rolled the window up and shifted back into drive.

  “That was too close, Bob,” said Bubbles. “You've got to be more careful.”

  “Oh believe me, I will.” Bob smiled and started driving.

  There were a few more minutes of quiet anticipation before the park came into view. Bubbles spent them preening herself and humming a strange song Bob didn't know. The last porch light from the last house disappeared behind them. Bob wanted to cut her right then, want
ed to feel her squirm as he shoved a screwdriver into her soft belly. But he was patient.

  “Lover's Park,” said Bubbles. “There it is.”

  And it was. A sign said “Johnston Park” and the road split off in three directions. All of them lined with trees. Beautiful dark seclusion.

  Bob's boner was raging. He felt the heft and edge of the tools in the bag. He found a good spot, just under a large tree, and parked.

  Bubbles sighed and turned to face him. Bob unzipped the bag and reached inside. His hand closed on the scalpel.

  “So,” said Bubbles, “shall we get started?”

  “Yes,” said Bob, breathless. “Let's.”

  Then he was momentarily blinded by headlights sweeping across the car. A truck pulled in next to them and parked. Loud music thumped from it. Two teenagers inside started groping each other. Bob wanted to burst from the car and hack off both their heads. Wanted to ride home with their bloody heads knocking together in the trunk. But that would scare Bubbles away. And she was the prize.

  “Well,” said Bubbles, “so much for privacy, huh?”

  Bob let the scalpel fall from his sweaty hand back into the bag. “No worries,” he said. “There's plenty of other spots.”

  His hands shaking, he started the car and pulled away from the tree. He drove as calmly as he could, his heart pounding. Just a few moments longer, he told himself. Bubbles shifted in her seat next to him. Was she getting nervous? No bailing out now, Bubbles.

  Finally he found an empty gazebo. No cars were parked around it and the light post next to it seemed to have burned out. Perfect. He pulled in front of it and turned off the engine. His sweaty hands let go of the keys.

  “Ah,” said Bubbles. “Much better.”

  “Yes,” said Bob, reaching into the bag and finding the scalpel again.

  Bubbles grinned and wiped the corners of her mouth.

  Bob smiled back and shoved the scalpel into her neck. He waited for the screaming and the hot spurt of blood.

  But it didn't happen. Bubbles didn't scream. Bubbles didn't bleed. Instead she chuckled. Bob was so surprised he let go of the scalpel. Bubbles calmly reached up, took hold of the scalpel and pulled it from her neck. No blood came from the small slit where it had been. Instead, a tiny bit of white light shone from it. Bob blinked at it stupidly.

  Bubbles turned the scalpel one way and another, looking at it. “How considerate, Bob.” She brought the scalpel up to her left hand.

  Bob watched in shock as she drug the blade in a neat line all the way around her wrist. More light spilled from the line. She dropped the scalpel and grabbed hold of her left hand. She pulled and with a slick, wet noise her left hand came off like a glove.

  She pulled it free and revealed a thick, shining metal hook. Light poured from the opening of her wrist, filling the car. Bob winced. The hook gleamed as she brought it up to him.

  “That's much better,” she said and gouged the hook through Bob's neck. He pulled back but was too late. A huge chunk of his throat came free and he gurgled and bled down his shirt. His last sight was Bubbles, eating his flesh off the hook while white light bathed her bloody face. Bob was dead.

  The Hooker liked Bob. With her large freezer and secret combination of spices, he would last for months.

  The Wife's Confession

  I poisoned his coffee this morning. Not too much – not enough to kill him outright. Just a bit. Just enough to make him feel a little under the weather. Make him sweat a little more than usual, make him run his thick hands over his broad forehead and wonder why his temples throb. I imagined him wandering around his dealership, unable to focus on sales or on laughing with customers.

  Tonight, he came home and said he might be coming down with a cold. I cooed and patted his head. I was concerned and sympathetic. I’m very good at that. Very convincing. Then I made him more coffee. With just a tiny bit of poison.

  Tomorrow, I’ll poison his coffee again. Just a bit more than before. Nothing dramatic or obvious, nothing to tip him off. Just a tiny bit, just a little bit sicker, that’s all. A natural progression. And I will keep it up, every day a little bit more. Every day his ‘cold’ will get worse. His sales will suffer, his employees will wonder to themselves and each other. He’ll spend most of the day at his desk, rubbing his temples and sweating. Eventually, he won’t be able to work at all. Then the doctor's appointments will begin.

  And you might think I’ll be discovered. Surely the doctors will find the poison building up inside him, right? Wrong. I’m very careful. There are poisons that are very difficult to detect. And real-life doctors aren’t like the ones on TV. They aren't brilliant and insightful, putting together complex puzzles of illness with just a few tiny pieces. They just want to prescribe something and get to the next patient. And I’ve found poisons those hacks will never find. I’ve done lots of research. I’ve had lots of time to myself.

  So the doctors won’t find it. And we’ll both go to doctor after doctor, each looking more confused than the last as my husband gets sicker and sicker.

  And I will look concerned, even afraid. I will hang on the doctors’ every word. I will look at them like a woman looking for water in the desert. Looking for that hint of hope that my husband will be okay. And each morning, coffee with poison. Maybe eventually he won’t be able to stomach coffee and I’ll switch to milk. We’ll see how that plays out.

  Eventually he won’t be able to leave the hospital. They’ll prop him up in a bed and monitor him as he slips further and further away. And I know what you’re thinking. Surely the poison will stop. The hospital will provide all his food. My influence will be gone.

  Ah, but no.

  I will be the devoted wife. I will stay in that room day and night. We will watch TV and talk and try to pretend things are just as they were before he got sick. And I will always be watching for an opportunity. A back turned, a coughing fit, a nurse-aided trip to the bathroom. Then I’ll slip a little bit more into his food, his water, the plastic cup of juice. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with patience and alert eyes.

  Further and further away he’ll slip. And I will dote. And pray. And weep. The doctors will struggle bravely, will confer with each other, will do their best to comfort me without giving too much hope. And my husband will look to me for solace. I will give this to him. You never know who may be watching. I will even stroke his head as brave, stoic tears inch down my face.

  And he will try to be strong for me. He will struggle to be brave as the life slowly drains from those hungry eyes of his. Struggle as his breath becomes more and more shallow. Struggle as his limbs get weaker and weaker.

  And finally, finally, he will die.

  And I will be there as he does. I will smile bravely and hold his hand as he slips away. The machines that beep along with his heart will drone. The doctors will pull me away, will confer with each other, will determine the time of death.

  Then, the funeral. I will stand with family and friends, weeping and dressed in black. I will draw in ragged breaths and tell everyone I'm doing fine, considering. The priest will relate my husband's life, his good deeds. He will have to skip some things, but I will nod as though it's all true. Maybe it will even rain. How dramatic that will be. The angry sky weeping in rage at the injustice done. It will set a very convincing tone.

  I will hold a flower, a rose most likely, in my trembling hands. I will place it on the casket – as the wife, my flower will go first. Then I will watch as the thick straps and pulleys lower the casket into the ground.

  The wake will follow. Pot luck and sympathy. I will nod as people pat their condolences onto my shoulders. I will eat two plates of food, tops. I will listen as people tell stories about my husband and ask how I'm holding up. I will wait patiently through all this.

  Then I will no doubt have guests at home. It will be like the wake, only smaller and more bothersome. I will have to assure them several times before they will leave. But I will insist, and they will understand. A
nd they will leave.

  I will let exactly one hour pass. To be sure everyone has truly gone. It will be dark by then. I will get into my car and drive.

  Hopefully the cemetery gate will be unlocked. It should be. The keepers usually don't bother to lock it. I've checked a few times, preparing. Assuming it is unlocked, I will let myself in. I will find my husband's fresh grave. It should be done and the grave diggers gone. I've checked, and they work fast.

  I will look around, making sure no one is there to see. I will taste the cool night air. Relish it.

  I will kick off my shoes, roll down my pantyhose and slide off my underwear. Then I will straddle his grave and urinate. I will make sure and hold it all day, storing up a large amount.