Untitled Serial Killer Excerpt
I sat across him at a restaurant table. When he pointed out his faulty pen, all I could do was look at the blue ink on his tip of his finger. I should’ve felt sorry for him, but the only thing crossing my mind was why couldn’t this guy afford nicer pens. The blue circle on his finger kept getting bigger the more he rubbed his spit onto his skin. I imagined his dermis getting stuck on the bottom of innocent shoes walking by. MY GOD! This was getting worse by the second. I felt the vomit rising in my throat at the thought of him touching me.
After I couldn’t take him anymore spitting on his finger, I excused myself for the bathroom because my tension headache was banging against my temples. When you have to leave, you have to leave. I never should’ve opened my apartment door. I never should’ve hopped the subway. I never shouldn’t been so damn desperate. I hadn’t been taking my profession seriously. There was no stopping the brown whale as my mother used to say once he wants to wipe you out.
My head turned for a brief moment to look back at the disaster sitting at my table. Unknown to my dear friend who arranged this blind date at my pleading, this night would eventually take an unfortunate and random turn. I won’t deny I’d become lazy over the last year. I wanted the same rewards with the least amount of effort. You get what you pay for, and by the looks of it this wasn’t such a great bargain.
Let me divert a little bit. I graduated from high school knowing that ending my sentences with a preposition is a grammar sin. Many people grow up being scarred by their English teachers. I was lucky. Mine for the majority was a hot middle-aged man who had an affinity for periods, commas, and capital letters. I read and reread those classics thinking of his different smiles and forearm muscles. He preferred to be called Mister Z. His last name was Zonfield. I don’t remember his first name. All that comes to mind is Stripes, but that isn’t right. What a perfect specimen to be on the end of my first man crush. If only he had been aware of this at the time, but by now I’m sure his knees are wrinkly and his belly a little droopy.
It was while trying hard not to expel my lunch over dinner where I thought again of my blind date. His face bothered me so much. He had that kind of nose with a slight upturn at the end. It only accentuated his receding hairline. Someone should have demanded he get some hair plugs way before I ever came into the picture. I almost felt sorry for him. Key word is almost. The way my blind date dressed was plain awful with no adequate excuses. Just because Target decided to sell the latest attempt at trendy doesn’t mean his body would look good in it. COME ON! GRAB ONTO SOME REALITY! The shirt he was wearing looked a bit too feminine. He was clearly sucking in his gut under that hideous pattern. His butt didn’t look sexy, but lumpy. Maybe if he wasn’t violating every fashion no-no, he’d find men like myself staying instead of screaming horrors on the inside.
After I expelled my lunch, which wasn’t such a bad idea as I had overindulged in a Krispy-Kreme donut earlier, I wiped my mouth to get rid of all the evidence. My mother was a great role model. She made sure to always make sure my movements count. You had to really mean it. Her attention to detail was above all the other mothers. This brought whispers of her inappropriateness when she picked me up after school. The teachers were afraid she was touching me in ways a boy shouldn’t be by his mother. I saw it in their eyes during the parent-teacher conferences. I spit in my fifth grade teacher’s face when she suggested I was lying. No one disrespected my mother, not then, and certainly not now.
We were just that close. She was my best friend. I was a mama’s boy, spelled M-A-M-A, and not a momma’s boy, spelled M-O-M-M-A. There was nothing comedic about our relationship. It was as serious as cancer. I wash my hands three separate times, vigorously pumping the soap dispenser equally three separate times, and dry them thoroughly on paper towels thanks to her. I grab the door handle with a clean paper towel thanks to her. I am confident when I step out of the shower that I cleansed every inch of my body thanks to her. She taught me if I didn’t like someone or something, I could always leave knowing I did the right thing.
This circumstance was no different, but I was in for a little surprise. My body stiffened when I realized my blind date was gone from the table when I returned. Where did his funky nose go? Who gave this guy a right to reject me like this? Wait a second… is that his fugly body under the table? I smiled for the first time that night. Yes, it was him. He was still there. YES! His body was barely visible under the table, but he was most definitely there. As I got closer, I saw his lumpy butt when it should’ve been planted on his chair. He contorted and writhed on the floor like a dying fish, gripping his throat. I could see his face was pale, but nothing like the blue I had imagined.
A waitress gave me a shove as she rushed past me, and fell to her knees besides my blind date. JEEZ! This wasn’t the Pope on the floor. She put an ear to my blind date’s chest. Are you kidding me? He clearly has a pulse! He can’t breath! You idiot! She pushed on his chest, rather lamely. I doubt she even knew what CPR stood for. I wanted her to be my next based on pure stupidity. She wised up and tried her best to expel whatever was lodged in his windpipe. THANK GOD! I must’ve said it too loudly because she turned and looked at me. Someone else had replaced her and was much more convincingly trying to help my blind date.
She sprung to her feet like a coil and was at my side. “Isn’t this where you were sitting? Is he allergic to anything? Where were you? What’s your name? What’s his name?” I didn’t answer her because I’m not one to give credence to a blond-haired bimbo with a poorly done boob job. This bothered her and then yelled with annoyance, “I’’M TALKING TO YOU! HELLO, DO YOU HEAR ME!” My eyes widened with a crazed look. I didn’t want to bring attention to myself, but shouted anyway. “Bitch, everyone heard you including my dead cat.” Her look of horror was satisfaction enough. She backed up with regret. I had regret too: my steak dinner, just the right spices used and now wasted. I licked my lips once and got out of there.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked to my black convertible. No one was following me. No one would be looking for me. I had planned it this way. There was one kink in my plan and that was the blond-haired bimbo. I sped away not sure if my uneasiness about her was warranted. There had to be a pill to help this uncontrollable anxiety I had been having the past few days, but I’m not one to rely on weak remedies. My plan for tonight involved a man dying, but not at the slow pace I thought. He was probably dead by now. This brought the second smile to my lazy face, and then I started chuckling at the thought. If he wanted to be alive, he should’ve brought a pen worthy of his hand.
© Pisaries Creator