by Strand, Jeff
On my seventeenth birthday, when my grandmother came to visit, I overheard her say that it was kind of creepy that a boy my age was crying on a regular basis. Shit!
On my eighteenth birthday, my aunt died. She was on the way home with my cake when her brakes failed. The car she struck was being driven by a mother of six, who died instantly upon impact. Three of her children were disabled and required her full-time care, though that number would drop to two the next day when the child who'd been riding with her was finally moved from ICU to the morgue.
It was pretty sad. I did the fork thing and cried.
"He's not crying very much," I heard one of my cousins whisper to another one of my cousins. "I'm crying more than he is, and I didn't even like Aunt Betty." Shit!
I went into the bathroom, took out my pocketknife, and jabbed the blade under my fingernail. It hurt, but I didn't cry. I repeated the process with each finger on my left hand. I poked just enough to draw blood on my index finger, but by the time I got to my pinky I was sticking it in all the way to the quick. The pain was unbelievable, and I definitely made some unhappy noises, but there were no tears.
Why had the fork-through-the-face trick worked but not the knife-under-the-fingernails one?
Maybe it was the combination of pain and humiliation. Each time I jabbed myself with a fork, it reminded me that I was the kind of dumbass who had accidentally stabbed himself in the face with a dining utensil.
What could I do to raise the stakes?
Like most people, I had nightmares where I was in school wearing only my underwear. Being in my underwear in a funeral home would be less humiliating, so I'd have to go one step further and go for full nudity.
I stripped out of my clothes. This would definitely embarrass me. But though my penis wasn't gigantic, it was a pretty good size according to the articles I'd read, and that wouldn't do at all, so I turned on some cold water and splashed it over my groin until I'd shriveled to a suitably shameful length.
Hmmmm. Actually, it was still too large.
There was a good way to create intense pain and deal with the size issue.
No, no, no. That was taking matters too far.
I'd just stab it instead.
When I was finished, I walked out of the bathroom and over to my aunt's casket, and believe me, I'd never cried that much in my life.
For a few years after that incident, I lived a somewhat lonely existence. They didn't give me forks or habaneros in the mental hospital, so I didn't do much crying, but finally they let me out.
That's when I met Sarah.
Because Sarah needed to cut people to feel sexual excitement, she'd assumed that her love life would be less than robust. But I was all in favor of her quirky nature. Her previous boyfriend had been freakishly large, and I think Sarah would have told me that I didn't measure up even if I didn't ask her to, so I got both elements that I desired.
It's perfect. Sometimes I feel kind of lazy letting somebody else inflict all of the pain, but I make up for it by working a second job to support her addictions to heroin and adopting kittens.
And yes, I still rub raw sliced habaneros into my eyes on occasion, and in fact I can no longer see out of the left one, but I do that purely out of nostalgia.
Life is great. We cry together every day.
THE FIERCE STABBING AND SUBSEQUENT
POST-DEATH VENGEANCE OF SCOOTER BROWN
"So, Mr. Galen, how many times did you stab Mr. Brown?"
"I don't recall."
"Really? Surely you recall such a thing."
"It not like I was counting every single stab."
"Of course not, of course not, but I think you can at least give me a ballpark figure."
"I dunno. Twenty?"
"Try forty-three."
"Forty-three? Really?"
"Yes, Mr. Galen. You stabbed the victim forty-three times."
"Wow. That's a lot of times to stab a person."
"It certainly is. So would you mind explaining to me why you felt it was necessary to stab him that many times?"
"Well, I was trying to kill him."
"That much is obvious, Mr. Galen."
"I thought it was obvious, too, but you're the one who asked. I wouldn't have asked, myself. Seems like common sense."
"My question was not about whether you wished for Mr. Brown to live or die. My question was about quantity. If you stab a man once, twice, or perhaps even three times, then your motive may have been murder. But when you stab him forty-three times, one must surmise that there's a deeper issue."
"No, I just wanted to make sure he was dead."
"Where did your second stab occur, Mr. Galen?"
"Behind the bar."
"Do not try to turn this into a madcap comedy routine, Mr. Galen. You know perfectly well that I was asking about which part of his body received that particular stab wound."
"Oh. I forget."
"Do you, Mr. Galen? Do you?"
"His neck?"
"His throat. You plunged the knife directly into his throat."
"Ah, yeah, that's right. Got him right in the Adam's apple."
"Are you proud of that?"
"No, sir."
"So tell me, Mr. Galen, how many people do you think can survive having the eight-inch serrated blade of a hunting knife slam into their throat?"
"I'd think that somebody has, at some point. It's inevitable."
"Perhaps so, perhaps so. But do you agree that delivering another forty-one stabbings after that could be considered excessive?"
"They weren't all in his neck."
"No, they weren't."
"I know at least one got his finger. You aren't going to die from that."
"Of the forty-three stab wounds that were received by Mr. Scooter Brown, exactly two of them were on his fingers. What do you think about that?"
"He should have held up his hands more to defend himself."
"Are you taking this seriously, Mr. Galen?"
"Very much, sir."
"It doesn't sound like you are."
"I'm just saying that if somebody is stabbing you repeatedly with a hunting knife, that you should maybe put your hands up a bit more. That's all."
"Are you suggesting that Mr. Brown had suicidal tendencies?"
"No, not necessarily. All I'm saying is that if I were being stabbed, I'd make more of an effort to block the knife. That's all I'm saying."
"Is it possible, Mr. Galen, that once the blade entered his throat, that his mental faculties may have been compromised, making it difficult for him to determine the proper method of defending himself?"
"Yes, that's possible."
"Because I consider myself well above average in the art of self-defense, and yet if I am truly honest with myself, I have to admit that arterial spurting would create difficulty for me in making the best judgment calls."
"I already agreed that it was possible! You don't have to keep bitching about it!"
"Why are you being antagonistic, Mr. Galen?"
"I'm not."
"Do you mean to say that you used the b-word in a non-antagonistic manner?"
"I'm just trying to explain what happened, and you keep judging me!"
"Give me an example of where I judged you."
"You accused me of saying he was suicidal just because I said that I'd put up my hands more if I were being stabbed."
"You're right. I did. And for that I apologize."
"Thank you."
"Where were we before that?"
"I forget."
"I remember now. You stabbed him forty-three times, but, as we've discussed, even somebody with no formal training in medicine and/or anatomy would know that the second stab was going to be fatal to Mr. Brown. And yet you continued to stab him over and over and over. Why?"
"I guess I have a bit of a rage problem."
"A bit?"
"Yes, a bit."
"Come now, Mr. Galen, certainly we can both agree that such a high quantity of stab
wounds counts as more than 'a bit' of a rage problem?"
"Why do you keep bringing that up? Aren't one stab wound and forty-three stab wounds the same amount of rage? Let it drop, for God's sake."
"No, I don't believe I will. Because you know where I'm headed with this, don't you?"
"Nope."
"I think you do."
"I really don't."
"How much time elapsed between the first stab and the final stab?"
"I don't remember."
"Interesting."
"I didn't look at the clock."
"How convenient."
"Do you always look at the clock before you start doing something and when you finish doing something? How long did it take you to shop for that pair of pants?"
"Stop trying to change the subject. My pants are irrelevant and you know it."
"I'm just saying."
"What are you just saying?"
"That you don't know the time of every single thing you do in every single day."
"Fair enough. I suppose I will accept your challenge, Mr. Galen. It took me approximately fifteen minutes to shop for this pair of pants, if you count the time spent in the fitting room and the time spent in the checkout line. During that time I believe I also purchased two or three shirts. So, fifteen minutes is my answer. What's yours?"
"I'm not sure."
"Really?"
"I guess it might have been about fifteen minutes."
"Are you seriously trying to convince me that you believe it was fifteen minutes?"
"About that."
"Please do not lie to me, Mr. Galen."
"It might have been longer."
"How about two hours and thirty-six minutes?"
"Was it that long?"
"It was indeed."
"Wow."
"And how long did it take him to die?"
"Fifteen minutes?"
"Two minutes, Mr. Galen."
"Oh."
"Two short minutes for Mr. Brown to bleed out. And yet you continued to stab his corpse for quite some time after that. Do you believe that's indicative of a healthy psyche?"
"I suppose not."
"Is it not, in fact, appropriate to say that you are a sick and deranged human being?"
"It depends on your definition of 'sick.'"
"Are you making light of the situation?"
"No, sir."
"Did you truly believe that I was using the definition of 'sick' used by today's youth, the one where it means 'awesome' or 'really cool?'"
"Maybe."
"Mr. Galen..."
"Okay, no, I didn't truly believe that."
"There is nothing 'awesome' or 'really cool' or 'groovy' about your recent behavior. It was, in fact, quite disgusting. It was not admirable, nor noble, nor even particularly clever. It did not make you seem macho. If you'd killed him with your bare hands, then perhaps I'd admire it—not from a moral standpoint, of course, but purely in terms of skill. But what you did made you seem like nothing more than a drooling psychopath."
"I didn't drool."
"Still lying, Mr. Galen?"
"I only drooled a little."
"You wiped your mouth on seven different occasions."
"That doesn't mean I was drooling!"
"You also made slurping noises."
"Some blood got in my mouth!"
"One does not slurp when blood from one's victim sprays into one's mouth. One slurps when the drool of excitement spews from their salivary glands. You repulse me, Mr. Galen. You repulse me to the very core of my being. In fact, I wish that you were not in my office, because your presence causes my skin to feel like it's covered with dirt and insects."
"Should I leave?"
"No, you're already here. We might as well get this over with."
"Are you sure? You seem irritable."
"No, no, it's all right. The ability to gaze into people's memories does make me cranky, but I'll be fine. So you want me to bring Mr. Brown back to life?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
"To apologize."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You won't stab him some more?"
"No, sir. I'm done with that. It was wrong to do it in the first place, and I've learned from my mistake."
"I'd like to believe you, Mr. Galen. I really would. But I find it rather disturbing that you didn't even know Mr. Brown before you went on your stabbing spree."
"I understand your concern."
"If he had wronged you in some way, even a minor way, like cutting you off in traffic, I might think to myself 'Well, that was a disproportionately violent reaction, but at least I can pinpoint the motive.' But when you lure a gentleman into your van under the guise of needing medical assistance for a non-existent wife who is having a heart attack, and then proceed to stab him to death, and then continue to stab him for more than two hours after he is dead, I am forced to conclude that you are mentally ill."
"That's fair."
"I'm not trying to be rude. I simply believe, based on the information I have retrieved both from our conversation and directly from your brain, that you mean this man further harm."
"No. I just want to apologize."
"I don't believe you."
"Can't you read my mind?"
"Yes, but my psychic abilities are more about memories. Specific images. Not emotions. I know, for example, that you vigorously masturbated on Tuesday evening but not how you felt about it."
"Oh. Uh, sorry about the image."
"No need to apologize. I've seen worse. Now, I do have the ability to probe deeper with my abilities, to know if you are telling the truth, but it requires that I caress your eyeballs."
"Caress my eyeballs?"
"Yes."
"That sounds awful."
"It is."
"Okay, do it. Go ahead."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then. Keep them open wide."
"Ow!"
"You knew that it would hurt, right? That couldn't have been a surprise."
"I didn't know it would hurt that much!"
"Well, now you do. Hmmm. Okay, I now have to apologize for expressing doubts about your intentions, because I can see that you truly do wish to tell Mr. Brown that you're sorry. For some bizarre, demented, unfathomable reason, his acceptance of your apology is important to you. Very, very odd."
"I told you!"
"Don't act like my suspicion wasn't justified, Mr. Galen. You are a savage beast."
"But you can bring him back to life?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"He's already alive again. I don't care to waste time."
"Scooter...?"
"You!"
"I just want to say I'm sorry."
"Fuck you!"
"And he's dead again. Sorry. My power to reanimate the dead is not long-lasting."
"He...he...he rejected my apology!"
"Yes, he certainly did. Nothing wishy-washy about his response."
"But...I paid five thousand dollars so he could accept my apology!"
"You might have mentioned the expenditure while he was still alive. Personally, I would have opened with that, but since I've never stabbed a man to death, I can't honestly say that I know how I'd behave."
"That selfish bastard!"
"He was rude, but you can understand his point of view, right?"
"He was supposed to ease my conscience! Now I'm going to have sleepless nights for the rest of my life! The scorpions that live under my skin will never stop their incessant stinging! I can feel them now! Their pincers slice through my veins! I can see the blood in his eyes! So much blood! So much blood!"
"Is our business here finished, Mr. Galen?"
"So much blood!"
"Please close the door on your way out. Thank you very much."
IT'S BATH TIME!
"You won't go down t
he drain," Chester insisted.
His four-year-old son peered into the soapy depths of the bathtub, looked back at Chester, and vigorously nodded as if to say Yes, I will! I know I will! I will! I will! I will!
"I promise you won't," said Chester, who had just come home from an extremely long, extremely tiring, and extremely stressful day at work, and really didn't have any patience at the moment for ridiculous, unfounded fears.
Chester Jr. continued to nod.
Chester sighed. "C'mon, Junior, you know there's no way you can get sucked down the drain. You're way too big. You couldn't even get your foot down there, much less your entire body. Now get in the tub."
"No."
"There's a plug. It's a good plug. Even if you could fit down the drain, which you can't, the plug will stop anything from going down there. I won't pull the plug until you're out of the tub, I promise. Are you ready to take a bath now?"
"No."
How had Chester's life come to this? How did he end up arguing with a little naked kid over going down the bathtub drain? His mother had been right: he should have never had sex.
"You've taken lots of baths. Did you ever even start to go down the drain? Not even once, right? It's totally safe."
Chester Jr. shook his head, conveying the message: It's not safe! It's not! It's not! It's not! And only a fool would think differently!
"I'm going to count to three, and then—"
"No!"
"At least let me count to—"
"No!"
Chester placed his hands under his son's shoulders and lifted him up. Junior immediately began to thrash, kick, scream, cry, and urinate.
"Stop it!" Chester said, lowering Junior's feet toward the water. "I mean it!"
Junior's scream increased in pitch until Chester thought his teeth might shatter. As soon as Junior's feet entered the water, it became clear that there would soon be more water on the walls and ceiling than in the tub, so he gave up, pulling Junior out and setting him back on the tile floor.
"What's going on?" asked Sasha, peeking her head into the bathroom.
"He won't take a bath!"
"All right, I'll do it," she said with not-so-subtle irritation in her voice.
It was Chester's turn to handle bathing duties, and he knew that the correct thing to say was "No, no, I'll take care of it," but he really couldn't handle this tonight. He'd take an extra turn sometime in the future.