Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  Terrance sighed with the maudlin reality of it, stepping over the curb, and onto the snow-laden sidewalk. Flakes descended from a slate driven sky tinged copper from the sodium lamps.

  It was the music first, the thump and bass bumping from the windows. The front door was ajar, too, he saw.

  Norson was ringing in the New Year with a slight lack in self-discipline.

  Wasn’t the New Year still twenty-minutes away? Was Norson trying to blow the speakers in his stereo?

  Terrance walked up the path to the front door, the thumping bass growing louder with each step. Snow crunched under his feet. He couldn’t recognize the song because the volume was so loud.

  Anyone in the world could make off with his stereo, even the television. They could grab the goddamn Froot Loops if they wanted.

  Terrance pushed the door open. The television was on along with the stereo, some movie—like the song—he couldn’t recognize. It wasn’t a replay of Times Square ringing in the New Year two hours earlier, nor was it Las Vegas with Dick Clark. Did Dick Clark do Vegas anymore?

  The house was in virtual chaos. He raised his eyebrows, more amused than angry. Pastel colored streamers lay across the recliner, the coffee table, the dining room table, and the railing leading upstairs. Silver and gold glitter covered the floor like a powdered treasure. It would be hell trying to vacuum. An open box from Blackjack Pizza lay on the floor beside the recliner with half a pizza still inside. Mushroom, olives, artichokes, and pepperoni. Scattered from the kitchen to the living room stood various beer bottles, some half-full. Two champagne bottles stood on the kitchen table. A fire blazed and crackled in the fireplace with the safety gate set to the side.

  Was it more than Norson and Dana? Had they thrown a party? Were others here, too? If so, where was everybody?

  The sliding glass door leading to the back patio was open as well. Shards of wood and dirty footprints made a trail through the dining room, across the living room floor, and stopped at the fireplace. A tube of lipstick lay smeared into the carpet. The air was replete with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

  The man was good; it was too good. Terrance felt like clapping.

  Going to the stereo, Terrance hit the power button. The noise died instantly. He took a deep breath. He turned the television off, too. Silence breathed into the room. All was quiet except for the sound of muffled laughter upstairs, a drunken Dana twittering at something Norson said.

  As if on cue, Terrance turned, and Norson’s door opened. A drunken Norson Adler wavered in the doorway, a bright pink smear of lipstick on his cheek. His pale blue shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a hairy chest.

  “T’rence!” Norson tried to say. “We’s nist-nin’ t’ dat myoosnic!”

  Terrance smiled. “Now, we are listening to silence,” he said. “And, when you get a second, Norson Addlepated, I could use a word.”

  Norson cocked his head, not grasping what Terrance meant. Behind Norson, a sultry, tan leg came into view. A slender hand with sleek red nails slid around Norson’s chest stroking his nipples and hair.

  Terrance was impressed. Dana, he realized, was completely naked behind Norson, trying to pull him back into the room.

  “You can leave the little hot rod alone for a few seconds, Norson-honey,” Terrance said. “Just a word I heard could I relate!”

  Swaying drunkenly to his own rhythm, Norson turned to Dana, as if he’d just remembered something, and pushed her back into the room. A golden spill of hair came into view behind Norson’s head and shoulders, lipstick matching the nails.

  Norson said something Terrance couldn’t hear.

  “Oh, Nor-baby!” Dana said. “Don’t be a minute! Please, a minute's all I can take!”

  Terrance threw his keys on the recliner and walked into the kitchen. “Time’s wastin’, Nor-baby,” Terrance called. “We’re working a tight schedule! Gotta beat the clock!”

  Terrance opened a drawer by the sink and pulled out a six-inch cooking knife, concealing it behind his back.

  Big Orange Goofy with a knife, he thought, and smiled.

  Terrance returned to the living room just as Norson was making his way downstairs.

  “How many drinks have you had tonight?” Terrance asked. “Do you have a problem with alcohol, Norson?”

  “No, ovz-ifer.”

  Terrance laughed. Norson could—at times—play the role to perfection.

  “Well, if I’m not mistaken, Norson,” Terrance said, looking around the house, “it seems we’ve had a breach in contract.”

  Norson tried to smile. He fell short, wavered, and grabbed the banister, trying to right himself.

  “Trence,” Norson said. “New Y’rs, Even. Having some fun. Thought it was—” (hiccup!) “—o’tay?”

  “One thing,” Terrance said, “I cannot stand is a broken contract, Norson, a breach in business partners. Is that understood? I would think it clear as crystal. If it’s not clear as crystal, perhaps something needs to be established.”

  “Sumtin’ neeww?” Norson played along.

  “Yeah, something new,” Terrance said. “Like, you break the contract, and I get to stick a very sharp piece of steel through your Adam’s apple. How’s that, Nor-baby? Sound fair?”

  Norson looked on the verge of tears. Terrance almost felt sorry for him.

  The next moment whizzed by in a blur for Norson Adler. He barely had time to register the following seconds. It was all a dream, a drunken nightmare.

  Terrance pounced, his hand swinging into view from behind his back. A flash of bright silver emerged in front of Norson’s eyes followed quickly by a searing bolt of pain in his neck. Norson gasped for air, fell back, and gagged on his own blood. His eyes went wide in shock. Blood erupted from his jugular like a geyser.

  Big Orange Goofy rammed the knife repeatedly into Norson’s throat until it resembled a shredded, mutilated mass of flesh.

  Terrance whooped with glee! He emphasized his words as he shouted, driving the knife now into Norson’s chest:

  “Like this!” he cried. “Like every time you screw something up, I get to pull out the knife and do terrible damage to your body, Nor-baby! See how that goes?”

  Terrance stabbed Norson twenty-seven times. In seconds, the act was over. It was strangely quiet in the house. Terrance couldn’t hear anything except the muffled television in Norson’s room.

  A surprised countenance, a lifeless gaze stared up at Terrance.

  In a demented moment of reverence, Terrance Wattercliffe knelt at Norson’s feet. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He offered up a prayer. Let the knife do the talking, he thought.

  Terrance said, “Amen,” and opened his eyes.

  He hadn’t noticed, but in the time he’d been praying, Dana had emerged at the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of Norson’s shirts with red panties. The bedroom door was open behind her. She’d come out to see what was taking Norson so long. Instead, she’d found Big Orange Goofy splattered in blood, crouched over her boyfriend.

  Dana screamed in hellish terror and retreated to the bedroom. The door slammed shut.

  Terrance stood up and smiled.

  Of course, he thought. Lady Luck. The added bonus.

  Terrance stepped over Norson’s body and ascended the stairs.

  A single window in Norson’s room provided a chance to escape, but Terrance wasn’t worried. Two feet of snow covered the ground. Dana was virtually naked, and it was too high to jump.

  Terrance grabbed the knob and threw the door open.

  Dana continued to scream, huddled in the corner of the room. She grabbed the lamp beside the bed and threw it, missing Terrance by several inches. Green ceramic shattered against the wall.

  On the small black and white television on the other side of the bed, a large crowd cried, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

  He couldn’t have timed it any better. What a way to ring it in!

  Terrance moved around the bed.

  Dana’s screams made his ears ring.r />
  At his feet, Big Orange Goofy kicked aside a beer bottle. He advanced with the knife. Sometimes, it was disappointing how easy it could be.

  *

  Driving the road, seeking some place new, the idle hum of the Corvette purred under him. He wanted to get out soon, stretch his legs. The drive had been long, but it was good to be in the car again. He’d always had a thing for ’Vettes. The one he was driving now was a vintage 1961, red and white convertible. With the winter, the top was up. He’s kept it in a garage for the last year. The Cavalier was only part of the act. He only drove the Corvette until he absolutely had to. He didn’t like the attention it brought.

  He wanted to get a bite to eat, a cup of coffee before he drove farther…

  Leaving Colorado wasn’t terribly difficult. The sights of new places made it worth it, but it always left him feeling sad.

  He’d rolled up the carpets, taken the bodies into the mountains, and spent a day digging one deep grave. Because of the snow, the task had been long and arduous. He’d burned the carpets and scrubbed the blood off the walls. He spent another day painting Norson’s room (coat after coat), the wall by the stairs where he’d killed him. He ordered new carpet to replace the old. The house actually looked better than when he’d moved in.

  He had to leave before people started asking questions. If they did, he put on his long ears and the bucked teeth of Big Orange I-don’t-know-a-damn-thing Goofy.

  Mexico would be his final destination, Canada perhaps. He was a gypsy, but even Terrance had to quell his appetites at some time. Settling down was inevitable. He had to savor these moments while they presented themselves.

  The restaurant was, The Happy Belly, outside of Cleveland, Ohio, home of the Indians, the resurrected Browns. It was two-thirty in the morning.

  He parked the car in the empty lot and stepped outside. He locked the door of the ’Vette and sauntered across the snow-filled lot to the entrance. He pulled the door open, feeling a blast of warm air against his face. He shivered, shaking off the last of the cold. He picked a booth by the windows. He wanted to look at the Corvette while he ate.

  A young, short, Hispanic man came up to his table, setting down a glass of water. “Something besides water?” the waiter asked.

  A silver diamond shimmered in the waiter’s left ear. These days, that could mean anything. Terrance didn’t pay attention to trivialities, only roles.

  “Coffee,” Terrance said.

  The waiter nodded and walked away.

  Terrance picked up the menu and looked it over. Biscuits and gravy sounded good, chicken fried steak and eggs. Fried, of course. Lots of Tobasco, yolk, and pepper. The way a man should eat.

  Terrance tuned his ear to a sudden conversation between the waiter and the cook. Something about a girlfriend, no place to stay…

  The waiter broke off his conversation, returning to Terrance’s table, and set down a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Decided?” the waiter asked.

  “Chicken-fried steak,” Terrance said, setting the menu on the table. “Over easy on the eggs. Wheat toast. Hashbrowns instead of pancakes.”

  According to the badge, the waiter’s name was Demitri. Demitri wrote the order on the ticket, nodded, and was about to walk away when Terrance held up his hand.

  “Hold it,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

  Demitri raised his eyebrows.

  “You know someone,” Terrance said. “Or you’re looking for a place to stay?”

  “I’m looking for a place to stay,” Demitri said. “It’s a long story. Why? You know a place I can shack up?”

  Terrance took a sip of coffee. He winced. It tasted like charcoal. “I have an extra room at my place,” he said. “I just got into town, found a place yesterday. Rent’s cheap, too. Need to tidy it up a bit first, though. I can give you a deal since you’re having trouble with your old lady. Say…two-hundred a month?”

  The Good Samaritan, usually a good role, but easily tiresome. He’d have to think of a name.

  The waiter smiled.

  “You playin’ with my emotions, dawg?” Demitri said.

  Terrance laughed. “No,” he said. “I’m not playing with your emotions.”

  “Damn,” said Demitri, with obvious relief. “That’s just what I need. I gotta get out of my place. Girlfriends, man.” Demitri shook his head.

  “I know too well.” Terrance sipped the coffee again, despite the taste.

  Demitri seemed to think it over. “What the hell,” he said, shrugging. He scribbled his phone number on the ticket pad, ripped it free, and handed it to Terrance. “Here ya go.”

  Terrance took the number and nodded.

  “I can afford that,” Demitri said. “A price like that.”

  “Sure,” Terrance said, nodding. “I haven’t…hmmm. Can’t seem to remember the address off the top of my head.”

  “Well, what do you expect?” Demitri said. “You just moved in.”

  Terrance laughed, folded the number, and put it in his pocket. “I’ll get the place set up and give you a call. ’Couple of days okay?”

  “Sure,” said Demitri. “Just enough time to get my things together and get out.”

  “I’ll give you a call,” Terrance said.

  “You’re a life saver, man.”

  Terrance grinned and nodded.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Demitri said.

  Terrance wiped his hands on his pants, discarding the old and donning the new. He put his hand over the table. “Franklin. Franklin Bonner.”

  Demitri shook his hand. “Demirti Sanchez.”

  “Glad to meet you, Demitri.”

  Demitri turned and gave the cook a ‘thumbs-up’ as if all his problems had just been solved. He walked away from the table.

  Franklin Bonner looked at his Corvette through the restaurant window and wondered what name was on the registration. He might have to check his driver’s license. He couldn’t remember. Sometimes, he got the roles mixed up, and couldn’t remember who the hell he was. The idea made him laugh.

  While he waited for his meal, he sipped at his coffee, moving his head to the muzak coming from the speakers. He tapped his feet under the table.

  Who’s Franklin Bonner? he thought.

  It didn’t matter. He’d find out soon enough.

  He shook his head and chuckled to himself. He didn’t know who he was. He shrugged, not caring one way or the other. Something about Lady Luck…

  He finished his coffee and waited patiently for his meal to arrive.

  Life certainly had a tendency of taking care of itself.

  Perhaps he was immortal.

  Red Joe

  He called himself ‘Red Joe.’ Charlie Tenebrook no longer stared back from the mirror. Charlie was a stranger to Red Joe now, the forgotten picture of a distant cousin. Something about the face, though, Red Joe thought…telling him he should know who Charlie Tenebrook was, but just couldn’t place the bastard.

  Red Joe remembered Tenebrooks’s life, every detail, every reverberating chord of it: the supervising position at the plant, Charlie’s girlfriend, hockey games, and ginger ale. Tenebrook wanted it all back. The poor sod was crying inside, demanding to be let out! He was pounding on the walls of Red Joe’s skull! Red Joe could put his slapdash on hold long enough for Charlie to savor the last vestiges of his life, couldn’t he?

  Charlie Tenebrook, the ‘other face,’ had Red Joe to thank for all that. That ruby-colored avenger was running the show! Red Joe owned every aspect of Charlie’s life: the keys to his apartment, his new truck, the safe deposit box, even the keys to Amy’s heart. Charlie was going to ask Amy to marry him…

  Then Red Joe came along…

  He was Tenebrook’s caretaker. His presence was everywhere: the kitchen cupboards, cabinets, refrigerator, doorknobs, even the toilet paper roll in the bathroom. Scarlet footprints made a trail across the carpet. Red handprints stamped the walls.

  Charlie was still in there, tho
ugh. He was getting used to it, this amorphous creation made more slippery as Red Joe waltzed dramatically from room to room. Red Joe was quite the thespian when he wanted to be.

  I absolutely love the handiwork! Red Joe told him.

  He knew how to approach the situation. He had character, a sense of humor! Red Joe was trying to tell Tenebrook this.

  Just lighten up and enjoy yourself.

  But Charlie wasn’t listening. Red Joe was schooling him in the arts of slapdash. Yes, he knew how to entertain.

  See, you have to let yourself go to the current, Red Joe told him. There’s a bigger world out there, Charlie-boy. Quit taking things so seriously all the time. Have a drink, for God’s sake! Lighten up! After all, none of this is actually your fault.

  It could be worse. Charlie could complain, but what good would that do? He was lucky. This wasn’t your average case of the blues. Things had taken an unlikely turn was all, a detour into the unexplained. How could you not be thankful?

  Yeah, Charlie, so just lighten the hell up, Red Joe told him. I thought you liked this shade of red. I thought it was your favorite. It’s the same color as the truck you just bought.

  The truck he’d never drive again, the truck he should’ve driven to the hospital. It was too late for that now.

  Tenebrook didn’t reply. He came and went. Maybe he agreed. Charlie wanted Red Joe to shut up, let him contemplate this situation, accept this sudden shift into blacker regions of the macabre.

  Behind Red Joe’s ruby orbs, Tenebrook eyed what used to be his apartment and (a sign of Red Joe) couldn’t help but laugh. He had to accept it eventually, didn’t he? Maybe Red Joe was right. Even the smell didn’t bother him now, that sharp, pungent, coppery aroma. He was used to it.

  Tenebrook cackled like a lunatic. It was funny when he thought about it. Ironic. If he didn’t find humor in the situation, he’d go crazy.

  Or worse.

  Your mind would be my mind, Charlie-boy. Why do you think you’re dealing with this so well? Anyone for water sports?

  The twist paved the way for slaughter. Accepting it didn’t make the situation easier. He had a lot of cleaning up to do was all: buckets of soapy water, bleach, and countless rags…