He grabs the shovel and pulls it out of my hands. It feels like I’ve lost an arm. I look down at my palms, blood stained and empty, trails visible from where the handle dragged the crusted blood away. Clenching my fists, I realize I don’t need the shovel.
When I charge, he spins away from me, shovel in hand. I run into the elevator, hit my forehead on the rear wall. The resulting blood spot is cloud-shaped and puffy.
No matter. I’ll take him to the ground. I’ll crunch his nuts with my knee and render him unable to protect himself. I’ll punch him and bite him. And then I’ll choke him.
I’ll watch the smirk leave his face. I’ll watch the color go.
I run at him, eyes closed tightly. I experience pressure as the shovel hits my head. In that instant, I feel blood splatter somewhere in my skull, against my eardrums, inside my sinuses. I have a sensation of falling. There’s carpet below me. And blackness. I can’t hear. I can’t think.
~Chapter 16~
In which the narrator beats some guy to death with a shovel.
I took a step away and helped myself to a deep breath. The garden tool felt light in my hands. I walked around the motionless body.
“Hey, you stupid fuck, apologize for frightening me so.” I kicked his leg. “Apologize or I’m gonna clang you in the fucking teeth.” He didn’t respond. I clanged him in the fucking teeth.
I dropped the shovel and bent over his face. Whatever he looked like before, he was a Picasso now. He’d have to steal a lot of purses to pay for the reconstructive surgery he’d need. I reached over and flicked him on the nose. Nothing.
“Huh,” I said aloud. “Maybe you’ll think a little harder before you try to fuck with somebody you don’t know.”
I soon reconsidered my brash statement. It didn’t appear he’d be thinking about much of anything, ever again. He couldn’t stay there, all lifeless and soaking into the carpet. Taking hold of his feet, I dragged him down the hallway. I leaned him against the back wall of the waiting elevator and tossed his shovel in after him. After pressing the down button, I watched as the doors closed and one of my problems disappeared into the bowels of the slum I called home.
Should I call the police? I wondered. Nah.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my apartment. Locking the door behind me, I immediately started telling the egg about the waitress.
About the author
Caris O’Malley lives in Arizona with his wife and daughter. You can find him on the web at www.carisomalley.com. He’d love to hear what you think of his work. Send him an email at [email protected].
The Egg Said Nothing Page 9