Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror

by Sachs, Zané

  “Chances are Mr. Johnson’s insurance company will want to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Speaking from experience, insurance companies don’t hand out money easily. Before they pay hospital expenses, they’ll make certain there’s no extenuating circumstances—like an unknown party who’s libel for the accident. This kind of case usually involves an investigation.”

  Redbear closes his pad and both cops stand.

  I follow them to the parking lot, watch as their car drives away. Then, clutching my bag of pinecones, I run upstairs and start a fire.

  I’m dragging the last bag of garbage down to the dumpster when an unfamiliar SUV pulls into the parking lot. It’s shiny and undented, unlike the vehicles of most residents. The door swings open, and high heels attached to slender legs encased in pantyhose swing onto the pavement. They belong to a redhead who’s carrying a classy briefcase—real leather, not simulated. Around here, if there’s a weirder sight than a man wearing a tie, it’s a woman in a business suit.

  I, on the other hand, fit right in, wearing stained yoga pants, a sweaty tee-shirt and lemon yellow running shoes (Adidas, Avanti 2s, sale-priced online at Zappos). The yoga pants and tee-shirt are black, so blood that oozed from the last trash bag I heaved into the dumpster is barely noticeable, but there’s a red blotch on my left shoe. If the subject of stains comes up, I’ll claim they’re ketchup. I’m making hamburgers for dinner, so the story fits. I know, I know, hamburgers are usually beef, but this guy was an actor in the local community theater—thought he was the next Bryan Cranston or something. Anyway, these burgers are truly ham.

  The high heels click toward me as I lower the cover of the dumpster, and I click into Sadie the Sadist mode.

  “Excuse me,” the woman says. “I’m looking for Unit 20.”

  “I’m Unit 20.”

  “Sadie Bardo?”

  I nod.

  Lowering designer sunglasses, she peers at me, her gaze lingering on my shoe.

  “Ketchup.”

  “What?”

  “The stain. I’m making hamburgers for dinner.”

  “Tory Hartmann, claims adjuster for Insurance Alliance.” She extends her hand, perfectly manicured, then quickly pulls it back when she notices the black funk beneath my fingernails.

  Her hair reminds me of Natalia Romanova’s in The Avengers, so shiny red I want to tear it out. It’s swept into an elegant chignon, held in place by a fancy comb that looks like real tortoiseshell, not plastic. By comparison, my hair looks like my mop at work after sopping up spilled carrot juice.

  “Nice glasses,” I say. “What’s the brand?”

  “Louis Vuitton. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “About what?”

  “Justus Johnson. I believe you worked with him?”

  “Justus Johnson.” I frown, pretending to mull over the name. “Oh, yes. From the supermarket.”

  “You must know about the accident.”

  “I heard about it. Tragic.”

  “Are you willing to answer a few questions?”

  “Sure. My place is upstairs.”

  Her heels click behind me as she follows me along the path into the courtyard, then up the stairway to my apartment.

  I open the door and when she steps inside I notice her nose wrinkling.

  “Dead squirrels,” I say. “The exterminator comes tomorrow.”

  She nods. “I had skunks under my deck.”

  “Want a burger? I’m about to fry them up.”

  A propane grill is another item on my wish list, but where would I put it?

  “Sorry to interrupt your dinner. This shouldn’t take much time.” She motions to the couch. “May I?”

  “Sure. Something to drink? I can offer you cranberry juice, Diet Pepsi, or—this must be your last call of the day, would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Water would be great.”

  “The tap water tastes like sulfur. How about cranberry juice?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I grab a glass from the cabinet, where I also keep the Unisom. That stuff comes in handy, but the economy-sized bottle I lifted from Wal-Mart is nearly finished. I wasn’t expecting company.

  “Ice?”

  “No thanks.”

  I squeeze the contents of five gelcaps into a glass and top it off with juice. The new arrangement of my furniture makes it easy to avoid detection. Settled on the couch, the insurance adjuster faces the fireplace, her back to me. Her red head bows over her briefcase as she extracts papers.

  “May I call you Tory?” I call from the kitchen.

  “Sure.”

  “Live around here?”

  “Denver.”

  “Long drive.”

  “Yeah.”

  I bring her the glass of juice.

  Her gaze meanders over my stained tee-shirt.

  “I’m such a klutz, darned ketchup squirted all over me.”

  Smiling, she takes a sip of cranberry. Her lips pucker at the taste.

  “It’s unsweetened,” I say. “Want some sugar?”

  “Unsweetened is healthier.” She takes another sip, stares at the dying embers in the fireplace. “It’s warm out there today. You had a fire?”

  “I’m cold-blooded.” I laugh nervously. “That suit you’re wearing must be hot. Why don’t you take off your jacket?”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  She folds the jacket, lining out, as if my ketchup stains might be contagious. I notice the Armani label.

  “I’ll hang it up for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Noting that we wear the same size, I find a place in the hall closet, next to my shabby winter coat.

  “So, you work for the insurance company?”

  “They hire me. I’m an independent agent.”

  She runs her fingers through her annoying hair.

  “On the road a lot?” I ask.

  “All I do is drive.”

  “Must be tough on your family.”

  “I’m single.”

  “Me too,” I say. Chances are, she already knows that. This lady is no fool. I warn myself to tread carefully. “So you’re heading back to Denver tonight?”

  “Yes, but I’m in no hurry. I plan to do the scenic loop and spend the night in Ouray.”

  “Good plan. The hot springs are fantastic. And the drive is gorgeous. Treacherous though—hairpin turns on mountain passes. Be careful.”

  I pick up her empty glass and go back to the kitchen to refill it. Only three more SleepGels. I consider breaking out my Xanax, but I hate to waste the good stuff on a stranger.

  Tory sorts through papers, arranging them on the couch, since I no longer have a coffee table. Then she pulls out an iPad.

  “Mrs. Bardo—”

  “Call me Sadie, please.”

  “Sadie, I want to tie up a few loose ends.”

  I hand her the replenished glass. She places it on the side table, next to her sunglasses. I thought about getting rid of that table too, but it doesn’t take up much room. Anyway, it holds the lamp I use for reading.

  I perch on the edge of a frayed easy chair that I inherited from my father, catty-corner to Tory.

  Her smile reveals perfect teeth.

  “Did you witness the accident?”

  “Accident?”

  “Justus Johnson—”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Really?” She shuffles through her papers, then flicks on her iPad. “According to the initial police report, you weren’t certain if you witnessed the accident. Can you tell me more about that?”

  This woman is way too sharp.

  Careful to use my left hand, I nudge the glass of cranberry juice toward her.

  She picks it up and sips, her eyes focused on me.

  “Did you, or did you not witness the accident?”

  “I was on pain pills at the time. I don’t remember much.”

  “So you were home at the time of the accident.”

&
nbsp; “Like I told the police, I couldn’t work due to an injury.”

  “A cut on your left hand.”

  “My thumb. Nine stitches.”

  I show her the scar.

  “That must have hurt.”

  “Not on painkillers.”

  “So, at the time of the accident, you were sitting on your balcony?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Tory consults her iPad. “According to the police report, you were on your balcony when Justus Johnson had the accident.”

  “I can’t see the bike path if I’m sitting.”

  “Were you standing?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t remember if you were standing when you saw the accident?”

  I don’t like the way this is going. She needs to drink up.

  I head back to the kitchen, find a bag of veggie chips (no corn or soy), dump them into a bowl. Strategically, I place the salty chips on the side table next to Tory.

  She nibbles one. Follows it with a gulp of juice.

  “So,” she says, her voice sounding a bit thick, her cadence slowing, “you were standing on your balcony that morning when you noticed Mr. Johnson riding his bicycle?”

  “Maybe. He rides to work every day.”

  Tory glances at me, her eyes less sharp than earlier. “You pay attention to his patterns?”

  “No.”

  Her synapses might be decelerating, but she almost trapped me.

  “You just said he rides to work every day.”

  “Everybody knows that.”

  “Do they?” She takes another sip of juice. “Since your left hand was wounded at the time, did you come to rely on your right?”

  Without benefit of alcohol, the Unisom isn’t working fast enough.

  “Please answer my question, Sadie. Did the accident you suffered to your left hand force you to become proficient with your right?”

  I get up from my chair and wander to the fireplace where coals still glow within the ash. Using my right hand, I pick up the iron poker and stir the embers. I prod what appears to be a remnant of the actor’s humerus. Finding that humorous, I chuckle.

  “Did I say something funny, Sadie?”

  “Yes.”

  I whirl toward Tory, wielding the hot poker, the glowing tip aimed at her gaping mouth. Before she says another word, I charge her, the weight of my body propelling me forward as I ram the poker between her lips, smashing her white teeth. The poker spears her throat like a javelin. The point lodges in the base of her skull and pins her to the couch. Blood gushes from her mouth. She tries to scream and makes a gurgling sound.

  “Any more questions?”

  She stares at me with frightened eyes.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no.”

  I rip the cord from my reading lamp and use it to secure her wrists. Her eyes bulge as I straddle her. Blood pulses from her wound, splattering my face. Tastes like an iron supplement. I hope she doesn’t have AIDS.

  Note to self: Head wounds bleed excessively.

  I wonder if the stains on the couch will be permanent, and what about my newly cleaned carpet? Thank goodness I haven’t returned the Rug Doctor.

  The poker has severely damaged her spinal cord.

  Her head moves from side-to-side, as she struggles to breathe, but her arms and legs seem paralyzed. I grab her iPad and Google spinal injuries.

  According to this diagram, the poker is lodged in the high cervical nerves of the spinal cord, C1—C4, which explains why she’s shit her pants. C1—C4 injuries often lead to paralysis of the arms and legs, and pretty soon she’ll stop breathing. I’m angry with myself because, if she’s paralyzed, I didn’t need to destroy my reading lamp by ripping out the cord to tie her wrists.

  Essentially, she’s already dead.

  This website says, if I could provide her with mechanical ventilation, I could keep her alive for quite some time. That might be fun. With mechanical ventilation, she’d be able to breathe and swallow, even speak. Of course, without proper planning, I lack the equipment. That’s why I don’t like unexpected company. Now I’m stuck with this body, this half-dead corpse. It says here, the major cause of C1—C4 injuries is traffic accidents. That’s useful information.

  A buzzing sound interrupts my reading. Tory’s cell phone is vibrating, and the screen says Office. I give the caller time to leave a message, then I check her voice mail.

  Hey, Tor. See you Monday. We need to discuss your progress on the Johnson case.

  I text back: Drivving 2 Uray now. Bardo clear. Jonson kase a wash.

  Get back a text: Don’t text and drive!

  I relay the message to Tory, “Don’t text and drive.”

  Her head has stopped moving, and foam bubbles from her lips. The comb has slipped out from her chignon, allowing loose strands to fall into her face.

  I wish I had that head of hair.

  I consult the iPad. There’s controversy regarding this topic, but according to Wikipedia, Native Americans learned how to scalp from Europeans. The Iroquois took up the practice with a vengeance. Doesn’t mention our local tribe, the Southern Utes.

  Peeling the skin from the skull without ruining the hair is a challenge. The hair is caked with blood. Needs a good wash and conditioner. When I’ve finished scalping Tory, to avoid excessive dripping and spatter, I employ my Courtesy Clerk skills and double bag her head.

  Conveniently, her car keys and her wallet are in her briefcase. I plan to pull her SUV around to the walkway when it’s dark and people are holed-up in their condos, glued to their flat screens. Then I’ll drag the body down the stairs, wrapped in a tarp, of course, dump it in the wheelbarrow the super uses for gardening, and wheel it to the SUV. After the corpse is loaded (this one is definitely a corpse, not a cadaver, unless you count scalping as dissection), I’ll throw my bike in back. The road to Ouray is steep and winding, rocky ravines off the shoulders, hairpin switchbacks without guardrails, but it’s mostly downhill coming back. Not many people travel it at night.

  I know the perfect spot to stage an accident.

  I Google: making a car explode, and a quick search informs me that the impact from plunging several hundred feet onto jagged rock should sever the fuel line and damage the tank enough to make the SUV go up in flames. A full tank of fuel should ensure a serious inferno. I’ll buy gas, using Tory’s credit card, before we head up the mountain. According to this article (and shows I’ve watched on TV) it takes a long time to incinerate a body, but even if the SUV doesn’t explode, the corpse should burn enough to eradicate evidence.

  Meanwhile, I’ll clean up this mess and fry a burger.

  Cybernetics

  Krista texted me again. She and Tracy want to meet at The Quiet Lady for happy hour next Friday. I can’t go. I have to work that evening. Besides, I’m not up for the Dynamic Duo. Krista says she’s worried about me. I never showed for anatomy class. Apparently, that put her do-gooder gene into a tailspin and, I know from experience, if I keep ignoring her she’ll get more persistent. But I haven’t texted back. I don’t know what to say to her, so I’ll pretend her message got lost in cyberspace.

  I love cyberspace. It’s nebulous. Tactile communication gets sticky, messy, and way too personal.

  That’s why I’ve been avoiding Marcus. (Since our session, I can’t bring myself to call Marcus Doctor anything.) When I see him, in the parking lot of our complex or down in the courtyard, I hide. The guy might think I’m Borderline, but he’s psycho.

  I think about him all the time.

  Despite his unorthodox methods, or maybe because of them, he gets me. It’s like he sneaks inside my head, peers into dark corners and sees stuff I don’t even notice. In other words, he gives good head.

  Okay, I admit it. I’m attracted to his brain. I guess you could call it a biochemical obsession. Our programming synchs, our synapses connect, we’re tuned to the same frequency. We don’t need the Internet, 4G, Facetime, or smoke signals to communicat
e.

  Wouldn’t it be great if brains could live forever?

  There’s this scientist/techie guy, Ray Kurweil, who says by 2040 we’ll be able to upload our brains to a computer. I figure by 2041 we’ll all be robots. So if you make it to the 2040s, you’ll never get decrepit like my father.

  He left me another weird message. About socks. Apparently his are all mismatched, so he’s forced to wear brown with blue, but that’s not what bothers him. What bothers him is he’s afraid of socks, hates wearing them because they smother his feet and his soul can’t breathe. It’s not the first time that I’ve heard this complaint. On several occasions I’ve tried to explain it’s soles, not souls, but he insists his life force permeates his body through the bottom of his feet. When I’ve suggested he forget about the socks and go without, he tells me if he goes sockless his shoes will become angry and trample him.

  I’m hoping for a stampede.

  My phone beeps, notification that I’ve received yet another text from Krista: Yes or no?

  She gets like that, demanding. If I don’t text her back, she’ll keep texting till I say yes. Or worse, she’ll call me. I don’t have time to talk, don’t want to talk to her. I’m busy stalking Marcus.

  To get Krista off my back, I text: Werk Fday.

  Speaking of Marcus, his receptionist called yesterday wanting to schedule my next appointment. Guess the insurance went through. Who knew they cover getting fucked.

  For the past week I’ve been doing surveillance, observing the courtyard. Today I’ve been watching from my living room all morning, standing at the picture window, hidden by the curtain. Sometimes Marcus comes home for lunch. If he doesn’t show up soon, chances are I won’t see him today, because it’s almost time for me to go to work. I know the time without glancing at the clock, because the mail lady—mailwoman, whatever she’s called—is down in the courtyard stuffing letters into the open mouths of postboxes. Wondering if there’s any mail for me, I head downstairs to check.

  Today is one of those crisp, blue sky Colorado days. On days like this I want to ride my bike through the valley, cruise along the river, blow off work. It sucks to be responsible.

  I say hi to the postmistress (I think that’s her official title) and unlock my letterbox. I’m shuffling through bills and advertisements when I hear my name. Turning, I see Marcus.