MRS NAGLER'S LAST NIGHT
A Chapter from the book The Split. A novel about a psycho-sexualserial killer with Multiple Personality Disorder.
He entered slowly through the back door, keeping a flashlight in his hand and, though he knew it by heart, almost snail-like, made his way upstairs, careful with the creaking, dark oak stairs. But he knew how to be careful; he had done this many times, and he’d done it easily. Yet, cracking a crib—despite the intensive training—and things like that were always fraught with pitfalls. Just when you can the least afford it. He couldn’t afford slip-ups.
Thanks, mom, he whispered under his breath, reflecting on his experiences. For teaching me how to move soundlessly like that at a very early age. All those late nights sneaking into my room paid off. Can’t be too careful.
He was a quiet Indian warrior sneaking towards the enemy. Just like in the old western movies. The house was quiet, hot and dark. He wasn’t sure if there was anybody but Mrs Nagler. His snickers making the barest touch on each step, just enough to control the creaking wooden stairs, almost dissolving in the cover of darkness
I’m the Prince of Darkness and I can see better than a bat in the dark.
The kitchen and the living room was to the left of the hall and the bedroom was to the right. He went to the bedroom door, opened it and peered in. Mrs Nagler was in a sound sleep. The cunt slept deeply. Swell. He wasn’t surprised to find out he had gotten stiff again, as in all the Alley-Rat Incidents, and not entirely surprised by the urge to have a wank, but he wanted to save it all after finishing what he came for. There was enough time for that later.
Strange, though, to think even at a time like this, he began to sense the link of erotic transference between his victims as he was approaching to the stage within which the performance will take a place. The performing part was easy. He was a born-actor. By the time he was five, he was engaged in advanced theatre plays, performing character parts in serious and comedy stories at school. He was quick to identify with numerous remarkably contrasting character parts. He had a good appreciation and reaction from favorable family audiences and neighbors for his performance in the play Romeo and Juliet—Shakespeare’s most famous play for its poetic treatment of the ecstasy of youthful love. He also liked the idea that Shakespeare was apprenticed to a butcher’s shop. No wonder his plays were full of tragedies of righteous revenge, heinous and bloody acts. He liked Shakespeare’s fascination with tragedy and blood.
He was glad he hadn’t chickened out like David —he wouldn’t have none of the blood of that stinky cunt on his hands. The cunt wouldn’t be worth it.
His heart was pounding; not out of fear, but sheer excitement. He felt frightened of nothing. Jesus, this was going to be fun, he thought. A little burden to get out of the way.
The house was warm and still emitted the smell of Dessy. It gave him a sudden headache. Poor little bastard, he thought. But what did he care? People don’t cry at stranger’s funerals. Dessy was a stranger and he was not emotionally engaged with the little stupid animal; so, no sorrow befell him. Besides, it wouldn’t be wise to allow himself to be disturbed by other’s pain. And that did not mean being unmerciful, only being in control of his emotions. Someone else’s pain, he thought, is no concern of mine, my own pain is. A self-immune to suffering and pain. Simple as that.
The stairs creaked; he froze, cocking his ears.
Rats! he whispered.
Murray? Mrs Nagler called from the bedroom.
Shit. He whispered again. Murray, that dumb cunt caretaker who had a thing for the numb cunt Nagler. He had seen him leave almost an hour ago and wouldn’t return until the next day.
He suddenly thrust Mrs Nagler’s bedroom door open and entered, mouse ears glued on both sides of his ears, stark naked now, tightening and untightening his grip on the claw hammer.
A sound of click and a dim lamp up on the ceiling came on. He closed the door behind him and locked it. Why, he didn’t know.
Game time! he uttered, wide-eyed, smiling devilishly, his dick semi-hard.
Now he could, though not so clearly, see Mrs Nagler sat jumped up abruptly in her bed, shocked, pulling the quilt up over her chest as if it was an armor that would protect her—from what? His cock? The hammer?
He said nothing for a few seconds, stood there like a ghost, relaxing his right hand on the handle of the hammer, then, Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you, Mrs Nagler, he said, to let her know that he really was a harmless, a next door boy, not a prowler.
W-who are you? She stammered.
She switched the lamp beside her bed and craned up to see him standing in the door, completely naked; not too tall, good looking and supple for his age, holding a hammer in his hand that made her shudder.
You left the door unlocked. You shouldn’t do that cuz anyone could walk in.
Oh, it’s you, you miserable rat, she gasped. You scared me half to death, David.
Oh, no, he said coldly. This is Davy. David is crying off in some little corner. He could hardly hitch his own pants. That sissy makes me sick! You frightened the living shit outa him. So he called me. Now, bitch, you gotta set the records straight with me! David and I are different. He dwells on things, ah and oh, crying like a little girl. I execute. I impale. I dismember limb from limb. I control.
Jesus Christ, what are you saying? cried Nagler again. That’s not funny!
Did I scare you? he said with a distorted smile, his eyes gleaming. I didn’t know I scared you that much. Sorry to bust in like that, Mrs Nagler. Aren’t you gonna invite me in? You look as if you’d like to say something.
But she said nothing, and as he came closer Mr Nagler scared out of her wits, cringed under the quilt. She looked unable to say boo to a goose. In fact, she looked smaller. Submissive. She wouldn’t make eye direction, as if just waiting for the hammer to fall. David was wrong about her: she was a harmless, inept old hag, a nuisance at most, hardly a threat he had made her out to be. Her courage in the face of a threat had left her. She looked a sorrow sight now, her face white as the driven snow.
Look at you, he said contemptuously. What happened to Mrs yackety-yack-rapping-tongue-ol-Nag? You know, um, your hospitality is really overwhelming. Be kind to your guests, you stinky cunt, he said firmly, but with a little kindness, too.
Nagler, he went on with the same tone. That is one of your most irritating habits. Your fuckin foul mouth. I detest that! Your hostile nature. And you know what else? You lie. You scuz me out! You know what else I hate about you, Nagler? Look at me damned. I wancha lookin at me when I’m talkin to you, cunt! I hate that sarcastic victory grin. I’m tired of your schmoozing, your expression, and the slack of cast of your sinister mind.
What in the hell you’re doing in my house? Nagler snarled, her face pale as death. How’d you get in?
Great little Hollywood Palace with the most awesome view of the strip you have, he said. Not such a bad house for a jointress-witch.
What are you doing in my house? Now get outa here!
Ah…what do you think I’m doing in your house, you gagger bitch? I’m visiting, for rat-fuck’s sake. Do I need a fucking warrant? Well, sue me cunt!
You’d better tell me what this is all about? I…I don’t like friggin surprises, she said.
He said nothing and waited for a few seconds.
I know you don’t, he said, smiling a cold, eerie grin. But I’m certain you’ll get a kick out of this. You called for me. You couldn’t call for David because you knew he wouldn’t come. David can’t even harm himself. You shoulda see him paralyzed with absolute terror. If he'dna done what I told him he wouldna be in this mess. So, you called for me. For Davy. I spent most of the day in my room, waiting for a signal. I knew you would. I was sure of that. How? Well, Call it telepathy, if you like? Do you believe in telepathy, Mrs Nagler?
She said nothing. She stared at him horror-struck
I do, he said. See, I had this anxious feeling. A constant inner pressure and some psychic disturbance in my body. You know the one that makes you feel like there are ants in your pants. And there is this electricity current in the air; you can almost touch it, right? You of all people should know that. I couldn’t sleep. I think we’re somehow connected. I could feel your suffering, pain and anger, Mrs Nagler. So I said to myself, What the hell, why don’t I pay a little visit and alleviate Mrs Nagler’s grief and square things up a little. After all, what neighbors are for? I have always followed my intuition and this is where it’s brought me tonight. And since I don’t know why I’m here, I decided to submit myself to my impulses. Ain’t it seem a little ironic that I got to you first, he said, shaking his head. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve been having this recurring dream about you. The dream you’ve been sending me scared the bejesus out of me.
She looked at the hammer, then she palmed her mouth, almost choking, she said, What’s with the hammer! What do you want!
Oh, no, he said. You know, everyone’s been askin me this all my life. What do I want? What do you think I want? I…um, don’t know. you tell me Mrs Rapping-Tongue.
Maybe, he added quickly. I want exactly the same thing that you want. I want to talk about things. I want to gossip, he continued, pacing back and forth across the room. Talk about the old days. If we could go back, if only in memory, to the past, just imagine how happy we would be! Are you ready to talk, Mrs Nagler?
She wetted her lips, in the grip of a panic attack. Please, leave. Before something bad happens.
You mean something very...I mean really, really bad? What’s the matter? Oh, I’m not good enough to be one of your gossipmongers’ friends! You scared? How does it feel to be on a red hot-cinder for a change, anyway? Because I really would like to know, Mrs Nag. See, even a second seems like an hour, doesn’t it?
He smiled. Don’t mind the hammer. I’m doing some amendments in the neighborhood actually.
W-hat kind of… amendments? she stammered.
You know, fitting better windows, ah, insulating walls. Improving the standard of comfort. There are hundreds of people in the street who need to become better, who need to be improved. I came by the other day, but you must’ve been out. I thought I’d drop by on my way and see if something needs fixing, correction, revision, and improvement. Straightening your room a little bit. You watch Home Improvement? God, I love that show. You learn a lot about tools from that show, you know. And Tim Alan, he’s great. But probably he couldn’t bang a nail in his own home, for rat-fuck’s sake. He's a great actor and all that, I can hand him that. Tell me Mrs Nag; does he strike you like a person who can fix things around as he does on TV?
He saw her looking at the hammer again that reminded him to regain control of his arm.
Look, I’ve never seen the show. And there’s nothing in my house that needs fixing. And if this is about Dessy, I tried to stop him. I did my best. God is my witness.
I’m sure you did. I believe you. People always try to do their best. But sometimes they fail and have to pay the consequences. Things just don’t work out the way we want them to. I myself had been quite upset because things were just not happening for me. There were times when I was sobbing, feeling that I really was nothing. He paused. Then he cried. And you wicked cunt, was the straw that broke the camel’s back! You hookrat!
Don’t you come near me? NaglerMrs Nagel warned at his approach. Get outa my house. Now! You spawn of Satan! You’re sick! she raised her voice, her lower lip was trembling.
Fuck you cunt, he said icily. That I cannot do, Nag. So stop bitching or I’ll spin your head around like a spool on a spindle.
You’re crazy!
I prefer the word whimsy. Yeah, I guess you could say a little bit loony.
Why? she cried.
Why? He paused. He suddenly realized talking was making matters worse. He knew she was most dangerous when she was afraid. He leaned over her and yelled. You wanna scream, scream! Then suddenly the lyrics of the song Scream by Billy Idol started running through his head.
You are the lock, I am the key
Climb up my lemon tree (He didn't like this part. He thought it was a tacky rhyme in a tacky town—to quote Bryce Nelson —whose citrus groves were blighted by smoke.
You're the one, you're on your knees
You are my little queen
You know just what I mean
Climb up my lemon tree
Make me scream...
…Scream! Nagler, scream! I will open all the windows and the doors for you. I don’t think anyone would get his head out of his ass for a knucklehead cunt like you. They’ll probably think you found a rat in your pillowcase or still mourning your dog.
She stopped screaming and was too scared to say anything. She gasped, pale-faced, and put her hand to her mouth, horrified, she started crying; the way a kid cries.
Why? Why? She kept screaming again. What have I done to you? Why are you keeping this up? If it's a joke, it’s time to stop.
You still haven’t figured it out, have you?
Figure out… what?
That’s quite a performance, Nagler, he said giggling. Do you know what a malicious turbobitch-rat-fink-cunt you are? he said, sighing. You know what a schema means, Nag?
She shook her head.
Didn’t think so. See, a schema means directing all your attention to one thing, and ignoring the others. It’s kinda filter of perception. You see only what you want to see. I saw you. I didn’t look at something else. My ceaseless investigation have exposed a character so wicked, so sordid and selfish, that it is an amazement you’ve come so far unmasked. Just look at my eyes and there you’ll find yourself too clear: a manipulative, malicious old-wicked cunt who’d whet her appetite for revenge against any one and for whatever reason. The greatest feeling in the world is an old-fashion bloodcurdling revenge and sweet gossip, wouldn’t you agree? Going around spreading lies, bringin proud people low, lookin down on them, ridicule them. But didn’t you know that one who attempt to ridicule others, he himself becomes a joke, and often to his greater cost? You have run me down into the ground and spread wickedness about me around town, which is unacceptable. That’s all you do. Snoring, farting and schmoozing. You wicked ratfink, you thought it would be great fun to make someone, who never done you harm, suffer for all absolute infinite eternity. It’s crime, you know. This really upset me immensely. Such an ability for gossip you have Nag, but its time to stop your wagging tongue—telling plain-out lies, you rattlesnake! What’s round you, for rat-fuck’s sake? Rattlesnakes. Vermins. Stinkbugs. See anything else? Huh? Like rat-fuck you do! Because I don’t. I don’t see dignified and sensible people. Just a bunch of old swanky-cunt gossipmongers wagging their tongues like a half-dead mongrel’s tail, brittle-boned and squalid.
She curled up on the bed and began to cry.
See, he said. I know the likes of you. Let me tell you a piece of history. Once we were an immense family. Until one day my Granmomy passed away, living my grandpa with three young boys. Grandpa loved my father most, although he had six other children who presumably had equal claim to such affection. As for your question ‘why me’ I think I cannot answer that. The universe contains stars and galaxies, spread all over the night sky with vast tracts of space between them. The same stars in different galaxies but the reason being nothing, meaningless to us. They could be closer, farther. They just are not to be. So there’s no point asking me why I am doing this. Pointless as the stars. Hanging up there looking down at us in the perils of the engulfing deep…with contempt and indifference.
Anyway, let’s get on with the story. Grandpa, who’s been sleeping in the dust now for more than thirty years, was an honest, hardworking and highly successful businessman and the richest man in town, and wished nothing more than he already had. And, he was still a good-looking old hand; clean-shaven, mature look of him was encouraging. One day, he walked into the dance hall and fell in love with a woman who was ten years younger than him, with three splendidly attractive young daughters—but in a few years they would make a match, the old hand thought—After taking many strolls beneath the almond-scented trees of the spring time, visiting temples, going to theaters and festivals, they got married at the presence of Venus and Cupid—the universal image of social harmony. The ideal romance. Isn’t that how it all begins. The horror comes later, of course.
His three boys, in their early twenties, persistently opposed the marriage and refused to be part of the new family, and within a few years dropped out of college, sinking into severe alcoholism and drug abuse, dallying around with no future interest, no ambition, and no guiding set of moral values. My Grandpa heroically (well, he was a war hero, after all) tried to keep the family together, to no avail.
So now, the old man is home with four manipulative, mind-fucking-witches and three sons all around him. No one listened to a word the old hand said. Finally, they run him into the ground; he became ill, very ill. Soon he became bedridden attic case. Pillows and covers were brought to him and left to God’s mercy until the day he croaked. Now, nouveau riche witches became the mothers of prosperity.
She glared at him in the dim light, and her shoulders were trembling, her face blue as if she was electrocuted. She probably had never seen him so full of blatant hostility. He went to speak, but suddenly uneasy with fear and desire, and his eyes fixed upon her, were filled with wild sensuousness. And something else. Hatred.
I’m sorry Mrs Nagler, he said. I truly am. I don’t know what came over me. My mouth just sort of run away with me. All this time I wasn’t sure you could cry, though. I always thought you're a fire-eater. Hard as nails. Surprised I am. Can I use your bathroom?
She nodded, looking at him with sad-weeping eyes.
He went to the bathroom, and stayed there for a while. He put the hammer on the sink and washed his face. He was a little reluctant to come out. But he knew what he had to do. What was he worrying about Nagler’s sad-weepy eyes. Was he becoming sentimental? Did a strong man become sentimental? He felt his burning eyes. Damn! She was probably faking it; like a wolf putting on swan’s feather-clothing. Acting frightened.
I know all about you, Nagler. You can’t deceive me.
He turned off the water, but didn’t bother drying his face. Then suddenly he whirled around, almost lost his balance, quite sure Murray was behind him.
There was nothing.
He picked up the hammer and checked the scalpel in his breast pocket, then went back into her bedroom.
Keep your cool.
You know, she said, from where she lay on the bed, forcing a wan smile, a few of her loose ochreish, hideous witch’s teeth in her rotted gum came to view. In the dim light, her face looked withered, almost colorless, like the worn-out leather of his boots he wore to school as a kid. God, he hated those boots.
You gave me quite a jump, David dear.
He opened his mouth without the slightest idea of what he was going to say, maybe something like don’t fucking dear me.
Nothing. To him, she was nothing.
He was supposed to say nothing, he thought, but decided to say something, his voice icy cold. You pushed me so hard and spoiled everything between me and mom and everyone else, you rotten cunt, he said. But you can touch nor me nor anyone else. Did you know some wounds never heal? You made me what I am.
He was good on reading facial expressions: she was hidden behind defensive style, like a snake hidden in the grass. A constrained smile, the tone of her voice. It wasn’t about what she said, but how she said it. She wasn’t sincere. Was he sure?
He was. He could read her like an open book—it didn’t fucking take a genius to figure out what was going on through Mrs Nagler’s mind. He could hear her saying: now he is in command, Nagler (He had long forgotten her first name); Hang loose about him. You’ll get him later. Right now, the only important thing is getting him to leave.
Wasn’t Freud who said, ‘‘If her lips are silent, she gossips with her fingertips, betrayal oozes out of her at every pore.”
He felt an acid ache of rage in his stomach and he wanted to shout, IT’S TOO LATE TO POUR OIL INTO TROUBLED WATER, YOU STUPID CUNT! But he didn’t.
It’s time for the surprise, he said instead, his eyes gleaming.
What surprise? she asked, alarmed.
It’s time for Mrs Nag to learn a lesson. You can’t keep treating people the way you do.
The telephone started ringing.
Who is it? he asked.
Murray…yes, Murray calls… to check up on me sometimes.
Shit! Answer it! Tell him you’re fine.
She answered him. Everything was fine, Murray.
Then before she could even react, he leaped toward her and with a single blow, he brought the claw hammer down onto her head, knocking her out, but not too hard. NaglerMrs Nagel was unconscious before she fell back on the bed.
He didn’t want her dead, at least not yet. One light strike was enough to burst a little gash in her head.
Now, her only gossipmouth kept trembling. Blood was everywhere. Spurts of red were flying in the air, landing on him, the bed, her, and the floor.
He took a deep quick breath; it was so rich, so sensuous, and so delicious. His orgasm rushed through everywhere in his body: in his mouth, the anus, the skin, his dick, even he felt it in his groins and armpits. Too bad, he thought. NaglerMrs Nagel was not able to see his content, satisfied grin. She would’ve probably thought he was a little menaced-soul. But he wasn’t menaced-soul or insane. It was, in a way, self-defense.
He tied her hands and feet with rags to the bedposts, and once everything was ready, he had to wait for her to wake up.
He giggled and lit a cigarette. He drew a deep drag, blowing ghostly circles of smoke into the darkness. Who knows, maybe one day he would make a legend as a Scooper Boy.
After a while, she began to regain consciousness. She opened her eyes to meet his, her eyes widened with fear, her head throbbing with pain, blood was dripping down her head and her lips were split and enormously swollen.
So how are you, Mrs Nagler?
She looked at him, wide eyed, as much to say, Please untie me. Ah, oh! I’m in pain. Help me, please. Pleasss…
Now listen, Mrs Nagler. He bit his lower lip for a second. You may think I’m a sadistic, vicious and psychotic beast who ruthlessly tortures those unable, weak people…and having sexual pleasure by inflicting physical or emotional pain on others. You know what? You’re absolutely right! I’m going to kill you, as a favor to those for all the pain you’ve put them in. So, am I making myself clear?
Oh, Mr Cunnliffe, said NaglerMrs Nagel in an utterly calm voice, a mask of composure over her sweaty, pale face. She knew she must call upon all her savoir faire (a vast collection of skills that she had learned by rote long, long time ago when she used to teach psychology class and help problem kids at Critter Rock High School, and she’d known a lot of violent and enigmatic men in her rock-of-ages allegiance, all right: putting up with years of her step father and husbands and bully lovers beating her, for example, supplied her with methods of how to cope with quandaries, how to fight back against bullies in life) to fight against a boy who seemed to want to possess her mind.
You present yourself with such self-assertion and audacity. But your fear and anxiety are showin through. Beneath your bluster, you’re self-doubting and vulnerable. You’re here to feel security by turning to your conflict. You’re safe as long as you’re near those who raise fear and anxiety in you. So, you strike out at them, even though they may not have been the real cause of your suffering, violently, to overcome your weakness once and for all. Because you’re petrified of being seen without disguise, the only source of security you feel you have. I’m surprised though you didn’t figure it out yourself… an intelligent boy like you?
The last words were so contemptuous he expected a great burst out of laughter from her malicious mouth.
Screw you! he hissed fiercely through his clenched teeth.
Am I hitting a sore spot, exposing a concealed hurt, Mr Cunnliffe? she asked with mock innocence, her terrible eyes riveted on his eyes; they were gleaming with an intense satisfaction . I can see that my comment struck some deep chords in you. Upsetting chords you’re in most agony to hide. Nagler felt a heat in her face, her anxiety was mounting, but she managed to suppress her justifiable fear, at least for now. She paused, then, giving a pained smirk, revealing reddish-brown stained teeth, she said, Afraid to succumb to your…what psychiatrists call inner reality?
He could no longer tolerate this particular interlude of sadism to which she was subjecting him. He felt his sinews were tightening.
This must end. Now.
ANALYZE THIS, YA OLD SKAG! He roared, and, then, like a flash, he leaped out at her and punched her hard across the face. For a moment, she didn’t move, as though trying to grasp, then she began to writhe, moaning frantically, in vain, trying to free her both hands that were tied, with a blue and white scarf, to the bedposts, her wrists now pale purple and puffed up from rubbing. He punched her hard across the face again and sent her black out. Blood trickled slowly down the corners of her mouth.
After a while, NaglerMrs Nagel had barely gained consciousness when she saw him standing over her next to the bed; his horrifically irrational maliciousness and madness; this dark, hidden side of him, which she could see now, filled her with mind-boggling terror.
You shoulda just left me alone, Nagler, he said frostily.
Bound and gagged, he stared at him, a cold anxiety in her shining eyes, her lips frozen in a little O. All the color had drained from her face so the wrinkles stood out like some plant roots. She was horror-struck and at the sight of it he felt a powerful flow of satisfaction that wavered through him. His whole facial expression seemed to have changed abruptly, more in control of feeling. He was not the person who moments ago had exhibited a blustering belligerence. His features, his voice, and even the way he said the words—a soft, firm and more articulate enunciation—made him look different. You shoulda stopped snoopin, he continued. It didna concern you. That was a mistake, Stoop-Nagler. A real fuck up. He paused dramatically, took a large emotional breath, then, after closing his eyes, oblivious to her wailing, he was transformed into an inconceivable metamorphosis. After ten seconds he opened his eyes and smiled ritually as if he was about to reveal the secret of the universe. His full lips pursed, becoming a thin line, his shoulders composed, and his eyes blazing and contrasting. It was as though he had calmed and collected every part of his body to put into words. I’m gonna take off your gag and u better not utter a guh. Okay?
NaglerMrs Nagel nodded gravely.
Cool, he said, and pulled out Mrs Nagler’s gag.
Bastard, NaglerMrs Nagel hissed, coughing. You will not get away with this. They will cage you in like a rodent, and I’m going to enjoy every minute.
Yeah, right, he scoffed, looking at Mrs Nagler, arching his eyebrows, Did you know That in today’s calendar the leap year is excluded every hundred years, and every four hundred years February 29 is restored at the turn of the century. Year two thousand will be one of those exceptions. So we’ll have an extra day to enjoy that comes round only once every four hundred years, that occurred only once before, in the year 1600’s. And for a mysterious reason, I was born February 29. And you know what day is today? It-is-twenty-nine-February! It’s my birthday today!
Mine, too, you bastard, NaglerMrs Nagel murmured.
I know…I know, he nodded, his voice still strong and different. But we’re not gonna celebrate. I don’t believe in celebrating birthdays. They’re not occasions for joy, but are sad markers of our lives passing by. And we shouldn’t attempt to deny sadness. We must embrace sadness. For man’s greatest crime is to have been born. Which means you and I are both criminals today. Today is our birthday! Whaddya say to that, Nagler? Is it…just a coincidence? Is it a fate?
NaglerMrs Nagel bit her tongue and said nothing.
Hell, no! he answered his own question, shaking his head, looking closely at NaglerMrs Nagel whose haggard, venomous face now turning redder and even more anxious, wide eyed, obviously losing control of her was never-there-in-the-first-place-calmness. No, not a coincidence. I believe it is nothin but a natural accident. You see, the accidents of evolution could have given us a different number, one that would have been as functional. Had it been so, we wouldn’t be here talkin about it now, would we? Nature fucked up, Nagler. Things just happen and, unfortunately, can’t be understood by the human mind. And you can’t imagine how infinitely fuckin mad that makes me. Sometimes I wonder, If God exists, He musta have an infinitely twisted sense of humor or he’s a lousy Maker of all things. A rat’s ass Creator, I’d say.
Ye bastard, she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. Ye Godless, evil bastard. Haven’t you done enough?
Not so enough as you have, cunt! he snarled, looking down on her, his face distorting in disgust and like a streak of lightning, he raised the claw hammer and brought it down hard and fast on her head, with all his strength, goring into her skull and blood spouting into the air like discharging liquid from a container. He wrenched the hammer out, gazing into her frozen eyes as he stepped back, suddenly his expression changed into hilarity and began laughing, as if he was thrown back into an irrational, pre-intellectual state, where the natural-emotive-self was put off by something to all appearances not earthly. Inhuman. Happy birthday, Nagler! Happy fuckin birthday! then, he turned and moved swiftly down the old stairs into the street, feeling an ecstatic rush of thrill as he ran. Fuck the world! Nothing more delightful than a vengeance!
When he came back a few hours later, walking briskly, his attention was caught by something flashing. Bright blue and red light cones spinning from local police and ambulance. He didn’t have the slightest fucking idea it was connected with him. It was only when he saw Mrs Nagler taking into an ambulance that he understood…but still was not absolutely sure about it. He closed his eyes for a second, but he wasn’t imagining. There was a flurry of movement in the crowd. Two men surged through in the uniform of the paramedics. Revolving lights on top of police cars parked in the scene. He walked three or four steps and stood frozen as he saw another police car come, screaming. He felt his blood run cold. Were they coming for him? But he didn’t intend to stand waiting and find out that he couldn’t afford the risk.
He gazed at Nagler’s passing ambulance and imagined the old cunt smiling her appalling smile…that flushed and mocking smile as if to say I will have time to think upon my revenge, Mr Cunnliffe. He could see her lying awake but perfectly calm, like a millpond, her ancient eyes as dreary as a ditch water, gazing up the hospital’s white ceiling in the long nights to come thinking revenge sweet revenge.
You’re on your last cruise, you stinky cunt.
He turned around and walked into the darkness.
By Maven Stark