It was a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship and I was sure that Hank’s Grampa Rufus would have been thrilled with the results of the restoration. As I held it in my arms admiring its beauty, I noticed that the substantial weight was perfectly balanced in order to optimize its utility as an instrument of death to be used on whatever its bearer chose to aim it at. For a moment, I imagined that I was Hank’s grandfather, carrying this shotgun and trekking through the woods around his northern Idaho ranch, looking for a rabbit, a wild turkey, or some other small animal that, once killed, would be immediately dressed out, butchered, and prepared by his wife as the entree of their evening meal. It must have been difficult to live this ‘eat what you kill’ type of existence, knowing that an unsuccessful hunt would result in a wife and children with empty stomachs and inadequate nutrition. It was hard to believe that survival of a family could have depended on such a simple, yet elegant implement.
As my mind returned to the present moment, I realized that I needed to get back on track. I thumbed the lever which allowed the break action to be opened. As the mechanism opened and the barrels rotated downward from the plane of the butt stock, it became immediately apparent that the weapon was loaded. The shiny, gold, metallic casings of the ¾ inch shells were seated perfectly in the extractor beds within the breech. Once I had verified that the weapon was armed, I reclosed the breech and began to replace the shotgun into the closet.
“I thought you were here to feed me, not murder me with my own shotgun!” Hank called out down the hallway.
I was startled by his voice and I nearly jumped out of my shoes. I’m certain that my heart skipped several beats as my head rapidly snapped around to face him and I saw that he was slowly ambling down the hallway in my direction. Surely, Hank had not seen through me so transparently and foreseen my plans for the evening. Shit, I thought to myself, I need to play this right or my whole plan is toast.
“Oh!” I said, “I was just thinking this meal is going to be awesome and I can have twice as much for myself if I blow you away first. Of course, now my plan is fucked.” And I need to change my underwear.
He held my gaze as he walked up directly in front of me. He looked down at his grandfather’s shotgun, which I still held in my hands.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s hard to believe that something meant for killing can so closely resemble a piece of art. I remember thinking the same thing about a lot of the weapons I was trained to kill with in the military.”
“I agree. In fact, I knew it was in here and wanted to check it out. I’ve been wanting a double barrel shotgun and I’ve been debating whether to get something vintage like this or something brand new. I’ve been realizing lately that they just don’t make things with the same quality or craftsmanship like they used to.” Everything I was saying was true. I had even been thinking about starting a collection of some vintage firearms for exactly the reason that I was explaining. On the other hand, my interest in Hank’s restored Remington as a fine specimen was not what had led me to go looking for it in his closet that evening, so I was feeling nervous about the fact that he had discovered me checking it out. I was hoping that he was buying my story.
“What the hell made you think about shotguns all of a sudden? I thought you were hard at work in the kitchen,” he said, with a suspicious look on his face.
“Well,” I said, hoping to pull a good response to his inquiry out of my ass, “it was a stream of ideas really. I was standing at the sink looking out the window and wondering if it was time to get the steaks on the grill. I saw a flock of geese or ducks fly over your neighbor’s barn. I started wondering about how close you’d have to be to kill one of them with a shotgun. This led me to think about the fact that a lot of double barrel shotguns have different sized chokes in the barrels in order to make one barrel more suited for closer targets and the other more suited for more distant targets. Then, of course, I remembered that I’ve been wanting to really check out your grandfather’s gun to see if I was remembering correctly how badass it was. You know what? If you really paid attention to the quality of the wood and hardware and the smoothness of the break action, I think you’d be hard pressed to find a modern shotgun of similar quality.”
“I totally agree,” he replied. “That’s why I keep it in the front closet as a home defense weapon. I know that it will always be totally reliable. Plus, those big, fat, side by side barrels make it look like a bad motherfucker, and I just can’t imagine a scenario where I’m holding that bastard as I open the door to greet an uninvited guest and it doesn’t convince them to turn around and run the other way.”
Apparently, he was satisfied by my response. He held out his hands and I handed the hefty weapon to him.
“Anyway,” I said. “Thanks for letting me check it out, I knew you wouldn’t mind. I was going to ask you about it, but you seemed to be engrossed in Hannity or Tucker Carlson, or whoever you were watching on the tube.”
“No problem. You know the dealio, dude. Mi casa es su casa. But now I’m getting hungry, so why don’t you get back to work on our dinner before I just say fuck it and order us some pizza?”
“Got it. Don’t you dare order anything else. I’m putting my heart and my soul into this meal. You could get me another drink, though,” I said. I would not actually be drinking much more alcohol, but I didn’t want him to know that. He knew I tended to drink like a fish when the opportunity arose, and I needed to make sure I wasn’t deviating, in any way, from my normal behavior. I’d be asking for at least a couple more drinks over the course of the evening, but any cocktail placed into my hand would be carefully discarded rather than being consumed.
Hank returned the shotgun to the closet and went to the bar, which was in the corner of the great room.
“How about a Long Island Iced Tea, Marky,” he called out from behind the bar. “I’m running low on Captain Morgan’s.”
“Sure,” I replied. “But only if you’ll join me! If I’m gonna get drunk tonight, you and Jodi can come along for the ride.”
Chapter 59
The previous evening, I had baked three large sweet potatoes in the convection oven in our well outfitted kitchen in Rockwall. I knew that I wanted to serve twice baked sweet potatoes as one of the side dishes for the Friday night steak dinner at Hank’s, but there would not be time to prepare them from scratch, so I had decided to complete the initial steps of their preparation at my home kitchen. These sweet and savory morsels were the perfect delivery device for one of the special ingredients which would ensure that the meals I prepared for Hank and Jodi that evening would be the showstopper that I’d planned. After cooling the potatoes, they were split, and the flesh was scooped out of the otherwise intact skins. The flesh was mixed with cream cheese, butter, bacon crumbles, salt, and pepper; then the mixture was scooped back into the skins. Once they were assembled, I injected three of the potatoes, through an 18-gauge needle attached to a twenty-milliliter syringe, with a secret ingredient that I had prepared. I made sure to inject them in multiple areas in order to disperse the agent throughout the fluffy orange filling. To mark the injected potatoes, I put a small pat of butter on top of them. I then covered the dish on which they lay with plastic wrap and placed them in the fridge. The final step of reheating the potatoes in the oven would be completed in Hank’s kitchen as I grilled the steaks, the ears of corn, and the asparagus Friday evening.
Following our brief conversation in the foyer, I had returned to the kitchen, where I resumed my preparations of the ears of corn which would be going on the grill prior to the steaks.
“Ooh, I love grilled corn on the cob,” Hank said, as he entered the kitchen and delivered my cocktail. What else are we having with steaks?”
“Twice baked sweet potatoes and asparagus,” I said.
“Damn, boy,” he said. “You’re going all out! Just so you know, Jodi isn’t a big eater, so don’t be offended if she doesn’t eat much. She is more focused on keeping her rockin’ body in shape th
an on eating delicious meals.”
“That’s fine with me,” I replied. “She can suit herself. I will be offended, though, if she doesn’t at least try a little of each of my creations. Now, go watch TV, dude. You’re throwing off my game here. Everything has to be timed perfectly if it’s all going to be ready to serve at the same time. Thanks for the L.I.T., by the way. It looks great!”
“Hanky,” Jodi called out. “Come back and sit by me. I’m cold. Will you help warm me up?”
Hank wandered back into the great room and sat by his girlfriend. I could just see the silhouettes of the tops of their heads if I peeked around the partial wall that separated the two spaces. As soon as he sat down, I could see their faces coming together as they began kissing. My stomach turned a bit sour as I turned back to my preparatory duties. Jodi was certainly a physically attractive chick, but, overall, she was truly what I had always referred to as a psycho-hose beast and I could not imagine being attracted to her like Hank was.
I returned to the sink and removed the last of the corn silk from the ears of corn. I had already filled a stock pot with cold water. To this I added a couple tablespoons of Kosher salt and stirred it up with a long wooden spoon in order to facilitate dissolution of the salt. Each of the six ears of corn were added to the pot, where I’d let them soak for ten minutes. I made sure to pour two thirds of my drink down the kitchen sink drain while Hank was out of the kitchen as well. If and when he returned to the kitchen, I didn’t want him to think that I hadn’t been enjoying the beverage he’d prepared for me.
As I worked, I started to become a bit anxious about what Hank had said about Jodi’s bird-like eating habits. I began to worry that she might not eat enough of her twice baked sweet potato to receive an adequate dose of the ipecac solution I had injected into the whipped orange flesh the previous evening.
The convection oven had been preheated at this point, so I removed the protective plastic wrap from the dish of potatoes and examined my handiwork from the previous evening. They did look delicious and I was sure that they’d taste equally good. They needed to bake for at least twenty minutes and it was time to load them into the oven. I made sure to arrange the delicious-looking morsels on the baking sheet in such a way that I would be able to keep track of the tarnished specimens. I was certain that the amount of ipecac, which I had ordered as a powder and mixed into my own concentrated solution, contained within just one serving would be enough to induce an extreme case of nausea and vomiting. The ipecac itself would not affect the taste or consistency of the rich sweet potato, cream cheese, and butter mixture much, so I was not concerned about either Hank or Jodi pushing the side dish away due to unpalatable flavor or texture. What if, however, Jodi just chose not to finish her serving merely because she was in the habit of ingesting only small amounts of food at a time?
I’d better taint a bit more of her meal with my nausea inducing elixir in order to ensure that Jodi would experience the effects that I was counting on. I walked around the island counter in the middle of the kitchen to where I could lay eyes on my unsuspecting victims and said, “We’re getting close guys! Hope you brought your appetites.”
They had not moved from their previous positions on the couch, where they had a quilted blanket draped over them. Hank’s head was leaned back, and he seemed a bit distracted to me —distracted like someone whose proverbial barn door was opened up under the blanket and whose couch mate was tending to the barnyard animals inside.
“Uh—right dude,” he said. “We’re looking forward to it.”
Their eyes met and they giggled a little. Jodi made deliberate eye contact with me and licked her lips in a way that I’m sure she thought was sexy. She was truly pitiful, and I could barely hide my disdain for her. Was I surprised that Jodi was giving her Hank-panky a hand job on the couch right in front of me? Not in the least. Surprised—no. Disgusted—oh yeah! I kept a neutral look on my face and turned away, denying her the satisfaction of thinking that I had any interest in what was going on under their blanket or that she’d made me uncomfortable. I had never been sure of why she thought that I was susceptible to either her eroticism or her hostility, but I knew that she’d understand within the next few hours that she never had and never would have any power over me.
Well, I thought, these two and their deviant behavior wouldn’t be my problem much longer.
I was sure neither of them would be coming into the kitchen for at least a few minutes. Hank was not the type to walk away from the attention he was receiving from his faithful disciple, who was devotedly performing a favorite ritual at his altar. Knowing what was in store for him that evening and knowing how my friend had prioritized attention from women in his life, I was briefly cheered by the knowledge that he’d had both his ego and his member stroked one last time before he perished. Beyond that, I was pleased to know I was in the clear to finish my preparations.
I removed the hypodermic needle containing the ipecac solution I’d used the previous evening, which I’d hidden from any possible prying eyes by wrapping it up in butcher paper, from the cooler. It only took 30 seconds or so, to inject a small amount of my elixir of mayhem into the center of five pieces of asparagus, which I set apart from the other pile of asparagus that had been previously washed and trimmed to equivalent lengths. I recapped the needle and quickly rewrapped it in the butcher paper and placed it under several empty Rubbermaid containers I’d already replaced in the cooler. I then returned to my small pile of new-and-improved asparagus. I used a paring knife to cut the bases of Jodi’s asparagus spears at an angle. The others had been cut straight across. I certainly didn’t want to accidentally eat any of the spears that were meant for her. It would not be a good idea for me to accidentally poison myself with ipecac and end up leaving traces of my presence in the form of puke not belonging to either of the victims.
It was time to head outside to the grill, and I still wondered how I would be able to swallow my food down into a stomach already distended by a swarm of flapping and squirming butterflies.
Chapter 60
It was around 7:30 p.m. and we were seated on Hank’s wooden 1200 square foot deck, which extended off of his back porch. The deck, made of lightly stained teak, was level with the hot tub, which was directly adjacent to and drained, through an eighteen-inch-high waterfall, into his kidney bean-shaped pool. I had launched four floating citronella candles into the pool and had lit a dozen citronella torches around the periphery of the pool to ward off mosquitoes and other, annoying, flying insects. The ambience created by the 74-degree temperature, the flickering flames in and around the swimming pool, and the lack of flying insects, was beautiful. The opportunity to enjoy evenings such as this was the reason that each of us had chosen to live in Northeastern Texas.
“Before we begin eating what I hope will be a memorable meal for all of us,” I said, with my refilled cocktail glass held high in front of me, “I’d like to offer a toast to both of you. I know that we’ve had some recent differences of opinion and I realize I’ve been annoyingly vocal regarding these differences, to the point that it has put a real strain on our friendship. Hank, I want you to know, I have always valued our friendship and I’ve respected you, over the course of our relationship, as much as any dude I’ve ever known. Besides that, I’ve counted on you as much as any man has ever counted on another, and you’ve always been there for me. Jodi, I just want you to know I understand how much you adore Hank and I know how happy that makes him. Thank you for providing him with the love and support he needs. Please raise your glasses and toast with me to love and friendship. Let’s also toast the bravery and devotion which each of us has been able to muster in order to deal with some very bad people and very difficult situations. Thank you for forgiving me of my shortcomings. I want you to know that, as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be right by your side for the rest of your lives!”
In order to maintain my authenticity, I had chosen the words of my toast carefully. I have always been a terrible li
ar, so I had crafted my short speech in such a way that none of my statements were literally untrue, and I had practiced the monologue in my head dozens of times. As I spoke, Jodi’s eyes met my gaze and she smiled. Apparently, she did not realize I deliberately had avoided any phrases that offered her actual praise. Hank also seemed to appreciate my comments and did not pick up on either of the double-entendres contained within the last part of my toast. I internally congratulated myself on being half a clever bastard.
When I finished verbally committing myself to them for the rest of their lives, we all touched glasses, said ‘cheers,’ and sipped our beverages. I was glad to see that each of them was on their third cocktail for the evening and both of them were starting to get that glassy eyed look of inebriation which would make it a bit easier for me to manipulate them in ways that would facilitate my plans for the evening.
I asked them if they’d allow me to dish up their steaks and side dishes for them, and they readily agreed. Hank received a 16-ounce ribeye, which had beautiful marbling and had been grilled medium rare to perfection. To demonstrate the proper amount of pink within the center of the glorious slab of meat, I sliced into the center and pulled the cut edges apart. I waited for his approving head nod before moving on to Jodi’s steak.
As if I didn’t already have enough contempt for the lecherous louse, she had forced further feelings of disgust on me by requesting that I grill her steak well done. I had purchased a ten-ounce filet mignon for her, knowing that any infiltration of fat into her steak would be off-putting to her. It was certainly not what I’d ever order for myself or Mandy, but it was still an excellent piece of beef. Cooking it well done, however, was nothing short of sacrilege in my mind. I forced myself to keep my eye on the proverbial ball, however. She’d soon be gone, so why not let her make one more bad decision in life before she no longer would have decisions to make or lives to destroy. As my tongs gently laid her entree onto her plate, I smiled and secretly hoped that she’d choke on it. I then placed a corrupt sweet potato and five peculiarly sliced pieces of grilled asparagus on her plate.
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