by Strand, Jeff
"We need to dismember his body — a task which has already been started for us — and bury him in the woods."
I shook my head. "No. No way. I refuse to be part of that."
"You have to help us."
"No. Absolutely not."
Preston shifted in his seat. "I don't want to come off as morbid or anything, but that actually sounds like fun. I'd be more than happy to do his share."
Josh looked horrified. "You depraved psycho!"
"What? What's the big deal? It's better than having him puke the whole time."
"I'm not letting you chop up my brother if you're planning to enjoy it!"
"Okay, whatever. How about this? I'll be morally outraged and physically repulsed, but I'll do it just to keep us out of prison. Is that better?"
Josh sighed. "If I hear so much as a giggle — one giggle — there'll be hell to pay."
"That's fair. I do have a tendency to smile when I work, though."
"Fine. But no silent giggles where your shoulders twitch."
"Deal."
So I left them to their task. Hugs seemed inappropriate, so I simply returned to my apartment and made myself a salad. I didn't much enjoy the salad, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the gruesome recent events or because the lettuce was starting to wilt.
And that's when my problems began . . .
* * *
There was another knock at the door. I was becoming tempted to install a layer of iron spikes to keep that from happening. I glanced through the peephole, grimaced, and opened the door.
"Did you call about a severed ear?" asked the police officer.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you take me to it?"
I hesitated. "I believe I was mistaken."
"How so?"
"I was drunk. Very, very drunk. And in my drunken stupor I hallucinated a severed ear on my dining room table and called the police. It was a terrible mix-up and I apologize."
The officer frowned. "Alcohol isn't a hallucinogen. Sounds more like you were enjoying a bit of medicinal marijuana. May I see your prescription, please?"
"What I actually meant was that I was so drunk that I thought it would be funny to call about a severed nose. I'm sorry."
"Who said anything about a severed nose?"
"I meant ear."
"Who said anything about a severed ear?"
"You did."
"Did I?"
"I thought so."
"You were smoking pot, weren't you? Do you realize that it's a crime to contact the authorities while under the influence of illegal drugs?"
I considered that. "Isn't it a crime to do anything under the influence of illegal drugs?"
"Where's the dope, sir? I can smell it all over you. You probably sprung for the good stuff, didn't you? You and your pot-smoking stoner buddies. Or is LSD more your style? You doing some Lucying in the sky with diamonds? Crystal meth, perhaps?"
"I've never done drugs in my life."
"Oh, really? Never took a tiny little snort of cocaine? Never shot up just a wee bit of heroin on the weekends?"
"Never."
The police officer chuckled. "Prude."
"Are you . . . are you a real cop?"
"I'm just messing with you," said the officer. "I like to do that sometimes, when I'm at the end of my shift. But seriously, where's the ear?"
"There is no ear."
"Sir, you made two calls to 911 about a severed ear that you found in your apartment. I don't believe for a second that you were drunk, even though that's something I'd normally believe about a person. If you can't produce the ear, I'm going to have to take you in to the station for questioning."
Technically, the ear was still in my refrigerator, and I could give it to him. But since the ear belonged to Chester and I'd been partially responsible for his death, I didn't want forensics to trace anything. I probably should've had Josh and Preston bury the ear with the rest of Chester's corpse — it was odd how it kept getting overlooked while in my crisper.
"I made it all up," I insisted.
"Interesting. Mind if I take a look around?"
"Do you have a search warrant?"
"No. That's why I asked if you minded. But if you fabricated the whole story, then you have nothing to hide, right? I'll just take a quick peek around your apartment and let you off with a warning. If I have to come back with a warrant, I won't be so easygoing."
"You can look around," I told him.
"Thank you." The cop glanced around my living room, then walked into the kitchen.
Somehow I just knew this was going to end with a dead police officer in my apartment. I had no plans to murder him, but the way things were going I'd probably be mopping up cop brains from my kitchen floor within ten minutes.
"You keep a very tidy home," said the officer.
"Thank you."
The officer strolled over to the refrigerator. "Mind if I have a look inside?"
He knew. He had to know. I was tempted to say, "You know, don't you?" just to get the suspense over with, but decided against it. "Go ahead."
He opened the refrigerator door.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
He knelt down. My heart felt like it was going to spontaneously combust.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
Confess. "There's an ear in my crisper," I said. "A few days ago I found a severed nose on my table and hid it in my refrigerator and it was joined the next day by an ear and I called the police and they never showed up and then some kidnappers showed up demanding ransom and they took me back to see the boss who cut off the kidnappee's toe and sewed it to my foot and let me go and I realized that the kidnappee's brother had the same name as me so I called him and the kidnappers came back and we went to get the kidnappee's brother and the brother killed one of the kidnappers — it was really splattery — but the other kidnapper kidnapped the brother and we went back to the boss and I accidentally killed the boss by pushing him into an oversized pushpin and then the brother killed the other kidnapper and then my downstairs neighbor stole the nose and the kidnappee got killed completely by accident and then you showed up and I lied about the ear in my crisper to keep forensics from matching it to the kidnappee and finding out that he was dead."
"Is that so?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Then you would seem to be in a lot of trouble." The officer opened my crisper and removed the plastic baggie. "Is this the one?"
"Yes."
He stood up. "Looks like I hit paydirt. I was just looking for a beer." He opened the baggie, took out the roll of paper towel, and removed the ear, holding it carefully between his thumb and index finger.
"Am I under arrest?"
The officer looked at the ear, looked at me, looked back at the ear, and then popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "You will tell nobody about this," he said.
"Okay."
"I hear any stories about the cannibal cop, I'll eat your entire intestinal tract. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He walked out of my kitchen and headed for the front door. "You have a pleasant evening."
* * *
A couple of hours after that, there was another knock at the goddamn door.
"Sorry to bother you," said Preston. "There was, uh, a change in circumstances, and there's, uh, another body to dispose of. I'm totally fine with the sawing part, but if you didn't have anything else going on, I was wondering if you could maybe help me dig the extra grave."
I declined.
* * *
Shortly after that, the nightmares began.
Horrible nightmares where I had no nose, just like the traditional yellow smiley face. I stood in front of the entire class, noseless and not wearing pants. The other kids pointed at me and laughed, especially Pinocchio. I woke up screaming in a nasal voice.
The guilt was overwhelming. Finally, I went to see a psychiatrist,
although I was rather vague about the source of my guilt, focusing more on hurt feelings than on mutilation and death. Her advice was to write down the entire series of events that led to my nightmares. Committing my thoughts to paper might help me work through them.
Well, now I've done that.
And I feel even worse than before. I can flip to any random page of my thoughts and find something unpleasant. A minute ago I just re-read the part where an eleventh toe was sewn to my foot. This was an awful idea. First thing in the morning, this is going straight into the incinerator, followed by my psychiatrist.
No, I'm kidding about my psychiatrist. Really.
* * *
Believe it or not, the nightmares have stopped. The guilt nightmares, anyway. Last night I did dream that I was trapped inside a giant clam, but I think that was unrelated to current events.
I've started volunteering at a local Eye, Ears & Nose clinic. I don't get to do anything interesting — mostly just tedious paperwork and wiping down the occasional examination table — but I feel a lot better about myself. I'm working off my karmic debt. I may have squished a nose under my shoe, but I've helped many, many more noses in need.
With that, I shall end this narrative, at peace with myself.
* * *
Yesterday the cannibal cop showed back up at my apartment, demanding that I hunt for him. But that's a story for another day.
DUMMY
Cameron watched without much interest as the young woman took off her clothes. Her body was nice, and she was half his age (less if she'd lied about being legal), but he just wasn't into it tonight.
It must have been her attitude. Sure, they both knew she wouldn't be stripping in his hotel room if money hadn't changed hands, and he didn't expect her to pretend that she was in love with him, but she acted like she was doing him some big favor. He didn't appreciate that. If she wanted to take an all-business approach, fine. Just don't look at him as if he were a pity lay.
He almost told her this.
Angel, whose birth name was probably not Angel, took off her shirt and tossed it onto the floor. Cameron had to admit that he did like the black bra she was wearing. All women should wear black bras. There should be government legislation to that effect. The last prostitute he'd hired, three days ago, had been wearing a flesh-colored bra that made her look like a mannequin.
"That thing gonna sit on your lap the whole time?" Angel asked, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her pants.
Cameron turned Wally's head to look at her, and then made the dummy's eyebrows wiggle. "Would it bother you?"
Angel smiled. "I charge extra for a three-way. But, seriously, you're going to put it away before we get started, right?"
Cameron raised his voice an octave and spoke mostly without moving his lips. "Aw, c'mon, sweetheart, don't you think I'm a handsome guy?"
Angel's smile disappeared. "That thing needs to go in a drawer or something. For real."
Cameron shook both his head and Wally's head. He spoke in his own voice. "No."
She gave him the look of somebody who had to deal with weirdos on a regular basis and had lost all patience with them. Cameron didn't care. It was better than being looked at with pity. "Whatever," she finally said. "But I'm not touching it."
"Nobody touches Wally but me."
"Good." She wiggled out of her pants and kicked them over next to her shirt. Then she reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. "Should I be doing this slower or what?"
"You're doing fine."
She removed the bra, exposing full, natural breasts that were rather spectacular except for —
"You've got a pierced nipple."
"Yeah."
"Why would anybody do that?"
"It looks cool."
"It looks painful."
"Nah, the swelling went down. I can take out the ring if you want."
Cameron shook his head. "No, then I'd have to look at the hole." This whole evening was very disappointing. He wanted to feel breasts against his body, not metal. How could anybody be aroused by this kind of self-mutilation?
He'd just have to make sure he only groped the left one.
"Is it grossing you out? Do you need me to leave?"
Yeah, right, Cameron thought. The next part of this conversation would be her pimp showing up to explain that there were no refunds once the bra was off. "It's fine."
She took off her panties and stood naked in front of him. "So . . . ?"
"What?"
"You planning to do me through your clothes?"
Cameron made Wally silently chuckle, then spoke for him. "What a sap! I guess we all know who the real dummy is around here!"
"Don't make that thing talk anymore."
"Oh, now, sweetheart, don't be like that. I'm a sensitive block of wood. I've got feelings like everybody else."
"I'm not kidding."
"Are you trying to make me cry? My face warps when I cry. It's not a pretty sight. Why don't you like me, Angel? What have I done to deserve your scorn? I know you're a beautiful woman and I'm just a dummy, and I'm permanently stuck with this ugly bozo next to me, but my heart is pure."
"I know you think you're being cute and everything, but you're really not," Angel told Cameron. "And I'd like you to stop it."
"It's only a ventriloquist dummy," said Cameron.
"I know what it is."
"If he scares you, I'll put him away."
"I didn't say he scares me. I just don't like those things."
"He's not alive, you know."
She glared at him. "I know that. Don't talk to me like I'm stupid."
"I thought you might have been worried that I believe he's alive, so I wanted to reassure you that I don't."
Angel sighed. "Okay, look, I'll make you a deal. Throw in another fifty bucks and I'll talk to your friend. I'll carry on a conversation, pretend he's real, do a comedy routine or whatever you want. That fair?"
"I don't have another fifty dollars."
"Then put the doll in the drawer and get undressed. Or leave your clothes on and just unzip your pants, or however you want to handle it, but I don't have time for any more games." The pity in her eyes was long gone. Now there was annoyance and perhaps even some disgust.
Cameron was much hornier now.
"I'm sorry," said Cameron. "I was just trying to be funny. Come here."
Angel stepped over to the bed. Cameron looked at her nude body and grinned. Pierced nipple notwithstanding, her body was smooth and tight, and he definitely preferred her tan lines to the hookers who went to a salon. He still wasn't feeling his usual level of excitement — in fact, more than once this had been the exact point where he had to blurt out humiliated apologies and rush out of the room — but he was still going to get his money's worth.
Cameron slid his free hand slowly down her leg.
"He likes you," he said.
* * *
"Why would you ever want to be a ventriloquist?" Cameron's mother had asked when he was thirteen. "Everybody hates them."
"Not everybody."
"Maybe not every single person in the whole entire world, but if you went around asking people, I bet you nine out of ten would say those things are creepy."
"I don't want to be a dummy. I want to be a ventriloquist. You're mixing them up."
"You know what I mean, smart guy. Go on and ask people. Do the survey as a project for one of your classes. See if you can get extra credit."
"I don't mind if people think they're creepy."
"What about just regular puppets? Everybody loves Kermit."
"Puppeteers have to hide."
"What do you mean?"
"You're not supposed to see the person controlling Kermit. It's supposed to look like he's alive."
"But he's a charming character."
"So are a lot of dummies. Charlie McCarthy was charming."
Mom had smiled. "If you woke up in the middle of the night, who would you rather see sitting at the foot of y
our bed, Kermit the Frog or Charlie McCarthy?"
"I wouldn't care. If they were sitting on my bed by themselves, neither one of them could do anything."
"Well, if I woke up and a ventriloquist dummy was on the bed, I'd wet that bed faster than you could spray it down with a hose. And get that gleam out of your eye; if you try it, you'll be grounded for a month."
"Want to hear me throw my voice? I've been practicing."
"Let's hear it."
"Hi, Mom!"
"That's pretty good!"
"Could you see my lips move?"
"Only a little."
"M is a hard letter."
* * *
"Let me be really clear about this," said Angel, covering her breasts with her hands. "I'm not some crack whore who will put up with your crap to get her next fix. Think of me like a pizza. You paid for the plain cheese. If you want extra toppings, and I'm including this bullshit with your doll as an extra topping, then it costs more."
"You can't raise the price just because I own a dummy."
"I can, because in my ad it clearly says that I cater to fetishes at a higher rate. You didn't say anything about making some spooky-ass doll talk and leer at me. You don't have another fifty bucks? Fine. Put that thing in a drawer and let's get down to business."
"Okay, okay, if you want to categorize Wally as a fetish, which for the record I completely disagree with, then I'm not going to argue. That doesn't mean he has to go in the drawer. He can sit right here on the nightstand." Cameron set Wally next to the lamp, facing the bed.
"Is there a camera in that thing?"
"No."
"Let me see." Angel reached for the dummy.
"Don't touch him!" Cameron almost smacked her hands away, and was immediately glad that he hadn't. She looked tough, and he didn't want a hooker going psycho in his room. "If I wanted to record this, I'd just hide a cell phone somewhere; I wouldn't install a camera in a ventriloquist's dummy."
"So you just want him to watch you fuck me?"
"Yes."
"And you don't think that's a fetish?"
"You don't have to do anything extra."
"Okay. Whatever. Let's just get this over with. Are you getting naked or what?"
Cameron began to take off his clothes. Though he was always self-conscious about his skinny, gawky body, she was probably used to dealing with morbidly obese men with body odor, or toothless old men, or guys who were stoned out of their minds. He was nobody's idea of an attractive man, but she'd had worse. He bet she'd had worse an hour ago.