Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror

by Sachs, Zané

  I like The Quiet Lady. The atmosphere is Victorian, mahogany bar and fixtures, dim lighting. So dark it’s kind of creepy. As you enter, you pass a marble statue of a woman. She has no head. That’s why she’s quiet.

  My gaze travels across other tables—filled with the after work crowd and tourists—moves to the bar, and comes to rest on a loudmouth bitch. She’d look better without a head. A man, sitting on the stool next to her, notices me watching. He points at me, blows a kiss and laughs.

  I glance at my phone. Text Krista: i m hear.

  Get back: Parking.

  Probably a brand-new Lexus.

  Tracy arrives before Krista, not a surprise since Krista is always late. I met them a few years ago at the art center where I used to model. Life drawing class. Earned some extra money and I get off on people seeing me naked.

  “Sadie, is that you?”

  “I think so.”

  “You don’t look like you. What happened to the cute, all American girl next door?”

  “Dyed my hair to match my blood. I’m going for vampire.”

  I laugh, but Tracy doesn’t.

  “You look pale,” she says. “Tired.”

  Bitch.

  “You doing Botox or Restylane?” I ask.

  “What?”

  Tracy frowns, but her face barely moves.

  She’s older than me, but I have to admit, she looks good. Well preserved. She’s wearing skinny jeans that must make breathing difficult, high heels, and a tangerine orange sweater, probably by some designer whose name I can’t pronounce. When I’m with her, I feel the need to make excuses for my clothing. Except my sneakers; like most people in this town, I’ve got a thing for athletic shoes. Today I’m wearing Nike Dual Fusion Run 2s, my usual black yoga pants and a purple tee-shirt from Wal-Mart.

  Tracy looks me over. Doesn’t mention my cool shoes.

  I wonder how her head would look floating in formaldehyde.

  “What was that snide comment about Botox and Restylane?”

  “I said, are you doing a detox; you look rested.”

  “No, I’m not doing a detox. In fact, I need a drink.” Still frowning, Tracy perches across from me as if she might take off any moment. She works for the Gazette, advertising sales, and patience is not her greatest virtue. Remembering that I’m a victim of rape, her tone changes, as if she’s dealing with a difficult client, “Red hair suits you, Sadie. Really. And red is the hot color this fall.”

  “That’s me, always on top of fashion trends.”

  Tracy glances around the tavern, eager to find a waitress. “I’m dying for a daiquiri; they’re making a comeback, you know. How’s your dating life?”

  “Aside from being raped?”

  “Sorry.” Tracy’s face turns the color of my hair. “That must have been awful.”

  Tracy’s twice divorced, once from an accountant and, more recently, from a plastic surgeon. Her lifestyle demands a husband with a substantial paycheck. My needs, on the other hand, are simpler.

  “I’m looking for a guy who’s into power tools and asses.”

  “Me too.” Tracy’s Botoxed face reflects a modicum of interest. “I’d love a guy who’s powerful and into assets. How do you plan to meet him?”

  “I’ll know him when I see him, stalk him for a while, then move in for the kill.”

  “That’s my technique,” Tracy says. “eHarmony or Match?”

  “Home Depot.”

  Tracy manages to flag down the waitress and the girl—probably a college student judging by her straight, white teeth—takes her order. Teeth reveal a lot about a person. I run my tongue over mine and realize I need to brush. Floss too. Lately I’ve been using bleach strips, and I’ve noticed some improvement. I pick up my glass of wine then quickly set it down. I should have ordered white; the red may leave a stain.

  “Hi, guys!” Krista waves as she walks toward our table, moving past the quiet lady without even a glance.

  Sometimes I see her at the gym. She works out and so do I. I take spin and kick-boxing classes, lift weights, do the rowing machine and elliptical. I’m building strength and endurance.

  Krista sits between me and Tracy, the only space available due to the potted palm. She’s wearing spandex cycling clothes, and a Pearl Izumi windbreaker. She’s blond and bouncy, has a husband who’s a lawyer.

  She gives me a concerned smile. Her voice is saccharine, or should I say stevia-tized? (Krista wouldn’t be caught dead eating artificial sweetener.)

  “How are you doing, Sadie?”

  “Fine.”

  Impulsively (who cares if my teeth turn pink?), I drain my glass and motion to the waitress for more wine.

  “I mean, really. Are you seeing a counselor?”

  There’s no stopping Krista. She’s a do-gooder. Sometimes bitchiness is easier to handle. I wish Tracy would say something nasty.

  “I saw a counselor at Safe Haven,” I say to get Krista off my back.

  “Wonderful! We have lots of good people there.”

  “I doubt good people can help me.”

  “Of course, they can. Think positive.”

  My knee is shaking overtime.

  “What I need is a good butcher—”

  Krista and Tracy have moved onto the topic of appetizers: baked brie or popcorn shrimp. I vote for Rocky Mountain Oysters.

  “Sheep balls? Yuck.” Tracy sticks out her tongue.

  “My husband eats those things.” Krista rolls her eyes. “Guess he thinks it’s manly.”

  Ignoring me, they turn back to the menu.

  “Ahi on a bed of greens sounds good,” Krista says.

  Meanwhile, I’m thinking about balls, the texture and chewiness. They taste a bit like liver. Add a few herbs, a little sherry, a whirl around the blender, and I think they’d make a fine substitute for pâté.

  “I need someone who can show me how to take a body apart.”

  Tracy and Krista turn their attention to me.

  “The Art Center is offering an anatomy class,” Tracy says. “I thought you just modeled. I didn’t know you’re into art.”

  “Sculpture mostly.”

  “Lost wax casting?” Krista asks.

  “Carving. Lately I’ve been working with found objects.”

  “That’s great, Sadie.” Krista reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Art is therapeutic. You should sign up for anatomy. Tracy and I plan to attend.”

  She squeezes my hand, refusing to release it until I say yes.

  Krista and Tracy decide on popcorn shrimp, but when the waitress sets the platter on the table I won’t touch it. I don’t feel like eating anything associated with corn. Guess I muttered something, because Krista says, “Silly, there’s no corn in popcorn shrimp.”

  She giggles.

  Tracy snorts.

  I imagine shoving popcorn shrimp into their nostrils, burking them by stuffing wads of cocktail napkins in their lipsticked mouths. I watched a documentary about William Burke, an Irishman who lived in the 1800s. He preferred to suffocate his victims before dissecting them. Running my forefinger over my butter knife, I wonder if the blunt blade could penetrate flesh. Certainly it would serve well to gouge out eyes. I’d like to see Tracy and Krista with their eyeballs dangling from the sockets. Suffocating them first would make gouging easier. But I doubt it would be as satisfying.

  “Why so quiet, Sadie?” Tracy pushes her third daiquiri across the table. “Take a sip. If you like it, I’ll order one for you.”

  “I can afford to buy my own drinks.”

  “Of course you can,” Krista says, using a voice suitable to sooth a five-year-old. “By the way, where do you work these days?”

  “Courtesy Clerk.”

  “At the library?”

  “I bag groceries at the supermarket, but I’m up for a promotion.” I neglect to mention my recent demotion.

  Tracy and Krista exchange a look.

  They may as well shout LOSER.

  “Hey,” Tracy say
s, “do you know that guy who had the accident on River Road?”

  “Yes.”

  I notice I’ve been shredding my napkin. Little bits of paper flutter to the ground.

  “That was awful,” Krista says. “Wasn’t he the store’s manager?”

  “Assistant Store Manager. I’m up for his job,” I say, surprising myself.

  Krista and Tracy look at me as if I’m cracked. I hear the clink of glasses coming from the bar, snippets of conversations at other tables, chairs scraping against the hardwood floor. My heart thumps inside my head, and I’m thinking I should go home, watch a few episodes of Criminal Minds, and masturbate. But I may not have time tonight.

  After a silence long enough for me to review what I need to accomplish: laundry (there’s a bloodstain on my sheets that I need to bleach), charge the chainsaw’s battery, make a tuna sandwich to bring to work tomorrow (use tuna to lure the neighbor’s cat to my place, so I can dissect it—).

  Krista says, “Wow, Sadie. That would be a terrific promotion. Bagger to Store Manager.”

  “Courtesy Clerk,” I correct her, “to Assistant Store Manager.”

  Tracy snorts again. Obviously, she doesn’t buy my story.

  I feel a sudden urge to puke.

  “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

  I stand, and the floor shifts. To remain upright I lean against the table.

  “You okay?” Krista asks.

  “Yeah.”

  Maybe I overdid the Dilaudid … did … did … did.

  I laugh for no apparent reason, my stomach doing somersaults. My laughter becomes coughing.

  Krista offers me a glass of water.

  Weaving through tables, I avoid a waitress carrying a loaded tray and bump into the guy who blew me a kiss. His beer sloshes onto his shirt.

  “Clumsy bimbo.”

  “I’m gonna castrate you, shove your balls into your mouth, laugh while you chew.”

  I flash my butter knife.

  “Take it easy, sweetheart.”

  I reach the door marked Ladies. Luckily it’s unoccupied. I barely make it to the toilet before I start retching. My vomit looks like blood.

  When I’m done puking, I stand at the sink trying to avoid the mirror, but I catch my reflection. Sadie the Sadist peers back at me. Her face is pale. Her eyes are red and glassy. I squirt a glob of soap into my palm and run the water till it’s steaming. I wash my hands while singing Happy Birthday to me all the way through five times, long enough to ensure that I remove all bacteria. But even after fifteen rounds of Happy Birthday, I can’t get her off of me.

  I sneak out of the bathroom, slip past Krista and Tracy without saying good-bye.

  Standing on the sidewalk, I welcome the cool air. It’s twilight. My favorite time of day, when lines blur and colors fade. I step off the curb, planning to cross the street, when a car shoots around the corner.

  Breathing hard, I jump back to the sidewalk and lean against a lamppost, shaking uncontrollably.

  Sadie the Sadist mumbles something I can’t understand. Everything she says is garbled. My head is cracking like an egg. According to the self-help books, personal growth is never comfortable, especially when you’re on the verge of a breakthrough. That must be what’s happening now. According to Eckhart Tolle, in order to be fully empowered you need to break through the shell that separates ego from true self.

  What if my true self is Sadie the Sadist?

  Sadie the Super-Sized Sadist.

  She laughs.

  I feel a shift. Not only in my mind, but in my body. An integration. Pieces of my brain connect, synapses flashing as they create new pathways, reprogramming my DNA.

  Headlights stream past me.

  Someone asks, “You all right, miss?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  Across the street, the coffee shop comes into focus. I could use a cup. Self-reflection is exhausting.

  At the counter, I ask the barista for a double latté to go, cow’s milk, not soy. In the past I would have ordered white chocolate, hazelnut or mocha, but today I order plain latté, because I suspect the flavoring contains high-fructose corn syrup—although the girl assures me it doesn’t.

  I take the coffee outside and sit at a table, so I can watch tourists walk along the sidewalk. Within ten minutes, I pick up a college student. A freshman who arrived from out of town today and hasn’t registered for classes yet. A cutie.

  I offer him a BJ.

  “You a cougar?” he asks.

  I growl.

  A Boring Night

  When we get to my place, the college kid comments on the plastic tarps covering the carpet.

  “I plan to paint.” I show him a sample I picked up at Home Depot. “What do you think of Bone?”

  “Boring.”

  “Bone is boring?”

  “Yeah.” He grins. “My mom painted her living room that color.”

  “I’m not your mom.” I lead him to my bedroom—red sheets, red comforter, a horse whip pinned to the wall—and proceed to strip off his jeans, peel away his shorts.

  “I bet you don’t think this boner is boring.”

  I run my tongue along his swollen shaft, then take him deep into my mouth.

  He comes almost instantly.

  My turn.

  He’s not bad for a beginner, and when he goes down on me, flicking his tongue against my clit and licking my swollen vulva, I feel my juices flow. I tell him I like it rough and, being an accommodating guy, he ties me to the bed and whips me halfheartedly. Then he fucks me with a shampoo bottle and plugs my butt with the conditioner.

  I come so hard, I’m screaming.

  Still, I want it rougher.

  “You okay, Krista?” he asks as he unties me.

  He got my name wrong! I’m about to punch his nose when I remember I told him my name is Krista.

  “I should go,” he says, searching the floor for his boxers.

  I kick them under the bed.

  “You still think I’m boring?”

  “Of course not.” His face flushes. “I didn’t say you were boring: I said the white paint is boring.”

  “It’s not white, it’s Bone.”

  “Whatever. You see my shorts?”

  “You don’t need them. It’s Friday night, time to party. Want a cold one?” I know he’ll say yes. He’s under-age in Colorado, so the poor kid has to hang out at coffee shops instead of bars.

  “Sure …” He flashes me that goofy grin.

  While he’s in the bathroom, I throw on a tee-shirt, skip the underpants. Then I slide open the bedroom closet where I keep my husband’s plumbing tools, bypass the cordless drill and chainsaw, choose the borescope—an endoscopic camera that connects to a handheld monitor. The camera’s flexible cable is designed to snake through pipes and dark, difficult to reach places. Ideal for my latest project. I power up the monitor, making sure the battery is charged. Satisfied, I head to the kitchen, grab a bottle of Fat Tire from the fridge, and lace it with Unisom.

  Wiz Kalifa’s rap is pulsing through the Bluetooth speakers, and when I hear the toilet flush I blast the music.

  The kid appears, a pink towel wrapped around his waist, and before he sees the borescope, I shove it into a cabinet between oatmeal and olive oil.

  “Sit down. Relax.”

  My place is small, and the kitchen opens to the living room. I hand him the Fat Tire and point at the couch by the fireplace.

  He flops onto the cushioned seat, guzzles the beer, and sets the empty bottle on the plastic tarp.

  “Still thirsty?” I hand him another beer.

  “Aren’t you kind of old for rap music, Krista? I thought you’d be listening to New Age, or something, like my mom.”

  “I’m not that old, asshole.”

  I’m preparing the next beer, my back to him. I think three will do the trick.

  “This town is friendly,” he says, his grin getting goofier. Attempting to stand, he wobbles and falls back onto the couch.
He pats the seat. “Aren’t you going to sit down, Krista?” It sounds like, r n u goina siddown, Krissa?

  For some reason, I answer using baby talk. “Woll onto your tum-tum, and me give you a weally good back wub.”

  “I may fall asleep.” He yawns.

  “No pwobwem. Stay owa tonight.”

  I grab the borescope and the extra virgin olive oil, head to the living room and slip the borescope behind the couch so he can’t see it. I pour olive oil into my hands, rub my palms together to warm it, then knead his shoulders.

  He moans with pleasure.

  “Actually,” I say, “this will work better if you lie on the floor.”

  He’s already half-unconscious. I help him from the couch, ease him onto the plastic tarp.

  “Cushion?” I slip one under his head.

  I enjoy running my oiled hands over his skin, think about sprinkling him with salt and pepper, a few cloves of minced garlic, a smidge of oregano, squeeze of lemon. Greek style. His body is perfect, young and tight. My finger traces the tattoo on his shoulder, an intricate design. I’ll have to get rid of that. I press my palms into the center of his back, hear the pop of his spine as tension releases.

  “Feel good?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He’s almost gone.

  I move my hands lower, my fists kneading the taut muscles in his butt. I lube up with more oil, and my hands glide between his legs, parting his thighs so I have access to his balls. I nuzzle them from behind, delicately nibbling and licking. A pubic hair gets stuck between my teeth. I dislodge it with my fingernail, flick it onto the tarp. Note to self: shave nuts. The kid is utterly relaxed now. My forefinger slides between his cheeks, and when I enter him he barely winces. His sphincter tightens, loosens as I wiggle my well-oil finger, massaging him until he opens like a ripe peach. I climb on top of him, rub my clit against his back as I ride him. My pussy gushes and my clit distends, thighs clenching and unclenching as my body arches backward.

  Ride ’em, cowgirl.

  Who needs a cock? My clit is doing all the work, and I’m about to burst. Did you know women ejaculate? Fluid squirts out of these ducts around the urethra. That’s ducts, not ducks. Mine are squirting big time now. I come, and come, and come.