Dead Weight
Posted: April 10th, 2005, 7:22 pm
Bim waited in the bushes preferring a pounce ready stance, casually switching between squatting and a one legged kneel. He waited and watched; looked on past the bushes, across the sparse parking lot, through the well-lit front window, and beside the play area. From this spot so carefully chosen he could see everything. He could see the redness in the man’s ballooned face as he forced down another meal, his jowls draping past his neck line – waggling with each bite like a cock’s chin, the plump fleshy stump on the back of his neck looking as if a new life molted inside, the pendular wobblings of udderish man-breasts, the fullness of his stomach pressing into the table’s edge – rolling downward in a wave of plaid covered cellulite until it perched atop his lap, the side rolls drooping beyond the concealment of a shirt – leaking over the stretched brown belt straining to wrap around his midsection, the fermentation of leg bulges raised like dough against undersized olive shorts, and without a noticeable break, the fat worked its way into the loaf shaped calves and found a levee in chubby little feet. But most of all Bim saw what he hated.
The man was on his third and final hamburger, or at least Bim hoped it was the last. After bush whacking for fifty-five minutes in the chill of a night’s soft breeze, his patience wore thin and the pricks of anxious adrenaline tired him. Jitters were setting in. His limbs began to lose their strength and his muscles battled the hangover of a natural edgy high. Each time he saw the rotund spectacle ooze back onto the plastic swirley seat with another tray of food, Bim felt both disappointed and justified.
The man stuffed the last bit of bun into his mouth before he finished chewing the previous bite puffing his chubby face out even further. From out an empty container he grabbed a crumpled napkin, already blotted with condiments, and wiped his mouth leaving only a small streak of ketchup on his cheek as proof the world was now three hamburgers less. Then he stood and walked with tray in hand to the garbage receptacle.
“Could this be another ruse?” Bim muttered to himself. “Perhaps he was just clearing his tray to order more, then more, then more. What if he ate till sun-up, then what?” Bim was unsure if he had the steely nerves needed for a daylight killing. There was something ancient in the night that coveted dark deeds, spawned them, nursed them in a motherly fashion to the point of validating a hammer to a head, a rope to a neck, a bat to a back or knife into ribs. There was safety in the sanctity of the night – dark times for dark deeds.
The man emptied the tray into the garbage and placed it neatly on top of a stack of other trays. He walked toward the exit.
This was it, another moment of truth. Bim’s eyes would no longer be victim to this man’s form. Accountability was at hand. Bim reached to the ground and took hold of the cattle prod. This time would be less messy than the last. Although he found fat people easy to kill — slow and slothy, any resisting strength weighed down in a body of cellular mud — finding the perfect way to do such a deed was proving to be difficult. “Trail and error,” thought Bim, “that’s how great ideas were formed. Trial and error, and perhaps a touch of patience, and maybe a cattle prod.”
The man walked out the restaurant and plodded towards his car. He reached into his pocket, found his keys and sorted them one by one. He stopped in front of his car door, heard a rustle, and looked left to see a small skinny man holding a crackling black stick.
“Yes?”
Bim closed the gap between him and the man inside the top end of a second and jabbed the prod into his chest. Electric clenches tore through the man’s body causing him to drop his keys and fall to his knees. The cap on his right knee popped beneath his weight but went unnoticed as his senses were wired to jolts of man-made lightning. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his teeth ground against one another, and his body tightened with each taste of the cattle prod. After five long jolts his heart could take no more and the man collapsed into a pile of lifeless self.
Bim ran over to his van and peered around its corners. Seeing the streets empty, Bim felt certain no one saw him herding the man into the afterlife and proceeded to open the side door of his van. He threw the prod inside and hustled back to the body. He quickly bent over and felt for a pulse along the man’s neck. Nothing, in fact he was already beginning to get cold. “Hands or feet?” he thought. Bim crouched and flipped the body face up. He walked to the head of the body, reached down and took hold of both hands. There was a moment of pride Bim felt while dragging a body, much like he figured, a hunter from yesteryears would feel as he carried a deer through woods and valleys, over fallen trees and running streams on route to the homestead.
It was 5:28 a.m. when Bim pulled into his garage. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon casting an autumn coloured glow across rooftops. Things were serene and peaceful at this hour, quiet enough to notice a bird’s song or the smell of trees.
Bim dragged the carcass through the garage and into his house. “Linoleum is such a blessing.” thought Bim as the body glided across the slick surface and around the kitchen corner. He opened the door to the basement. The stairs were steep, wood, and with the lights out and the shadows steady, it looked like the entrance to a witch’s lair. Even though Bim lived here for the past fifteen years, the sight of this basement still spooked him. With the flick of a switch the shadows scattered and Bim felt childishly relieved a wart covered woman with a broom stick did not await.
Slowly, methodically, Bim led the body downstairs step by step with carefully managed tugs that minimized thumps and controlled speed. He had learned a valuable lesson the hard way with his first kill. The body had picked up speed and tumbled recklessly down atop him, knocking him out cold and pinning him beneath dead weight.
In the basement Bim dragged the lifeless man onto a plastic sheet which had been set up hours earlier. Hanging above the sheet was a pulley. Slipped through the pulley was a lengthy rope. One end of the rope was circled into a noose. Bim loosened the noose and slipped the man’s feet into its center before tightening its grip. He then pulled on the rope till the man’s head was knee high from the floor. After securing the loose end of the rope to a wall hook, Bim retrieved a large metal pail and placed it beneath the head of his victim.
Starting with the shirt, Bim disrobed the man by cutting off his clothes. Stains of bodily functions gone amok coated the man’s backside and trickled down into the pail. Bim grabbed a plastic bucket with water, a wash cloth, and wiped at the filth. When the body was finally clean, Bim donned his apron and gloves, grabbed his steel and keened out the sharp of his knife. “Shick! Shick! Shick!”, the blade spoke as it ripened itself with every pass until its edges were as straight as the cuts it would make.
Bim steadied the body as the first incision opened the man from navel to neck. Smatterings of half-coagulated blood piped out like pudding streams and glopped into the pail with a splotty sound of heavy rain. Using his hands he further opened the wound, though it could hardly be called a wound. A wound implied hurt and this man was now far beyond the reach of pain. He pulled on each side of the incision until there was a half foot space between them. The innards rarely fell out by themselves needing a good amount of elbow grease to totally free them. Top to bottom the inside came out starting with the intestines, next the stomach, followed by a liver and kidneys, then the lungs which usually took some extra attention and had to be peeled away like an orange skin. Finally came the heart and with a good tug snapped free from arteries. Though the stomach split revealing undigested lettuce and pickles, the rest fell nicely into the pail without much fuss and filled its size halfway full. Next was the head. Bim couldn’t stand the head and was anxious to remove it. There was something unnatural about a dead head. It was the only real reminder for Bim that all of us were once more than just meat. With a few good saws the knife skidded through the neck and arrived with a dull clank on the vertebrate. Turning the edge of the blade upward then down, Bim found the separating point between bones and popped the head free. The bucket now had to be emptied. He could hardly finish his work in the presence of a head, especially not one that fell eyes up.
The hole in his basement was a work of art if ever a hole could be considered such. Blame it on compulsion, neurosis or good old fashioned work ethics, whatever was the cause the forty foot deep, shovel dug hole, was a tribute to careful planning. Bim carried the bucket that carried the inside of a man who once was and dumped the contents down the hole. Barely an echo leapt from the bottom as unfamiliar people parts from five strangers collided, mingled, and mixed. Returning to the remains, Bim grabbed his knife and gave it a few more runs along the steel. After all, the key to fine butchery was of course a sharp blade.
Most of the cuts would be roasts but steaks and ribs were plenty too. From ass to elbow, meat to bone, all the remains were sliced for later use. Soup from bones for some days and roast for Sundays, Bim carved out out brunches and lunches and dinners for one. Steaks were at the minimum – thumb thick, ribs were left meaty, and roasts had ample marbling to give a fine blend of flavour to a day spent slowly braising in carrots, onions and their own juice. When the winter came, this hunter would not go hungry.
A year, several days and twelve murders passed since Bim’s first kill. He awoke that morning from sleep with a pasty mouth and indulgent food hangover. He crawled out of bed and made way for the bathroom. After relieving himself he stood and washed his hands. His sausagey fingers weaved in and out of themselves as the water cleared off soap. The mirror told no lies as Bim looked up. His breasts now drooped atop a rounded stomach. An extra flabby chin hung beneath his first chin and etched a deep line stretching from ear to ear. His face was puffy and red and his eyes matched.
Bim walked to the stairs and turned on the lights. Still no witches awaited, no boogie men premeditated, only shadows and lights. He walked down the stairs, slowly, carefully, and turned the corner. He gathered what was needed from the workbench and set them in place. With a sigh and shrug, he stepped into the center of the large metal pail and steadied himself. “Shick! Shick! Shick!” the blade sang as it ran its tongue along the steel. The incision of course was made from navel to neck.
The man was on his third and final hamburger, or at least Bim hoped it was the last. After bush whacking for fifty-five minutes in the chill of a night’s soft breeze, his patience wore thin and the pricks of anxious adrenaline tired him. Jitters were setting in. His limbs began to lose their strength and his muscles battled the hangover of a natural edgy high. Each time he saw the rotund spectacle ooze back onto the plastic swirley seat with another tray of food, Bim felt both disappointed and justified.
The man stuffed the last bit of bun into his mouth before he finished chewing the previous bite puffing his chubby face out even further. From out an empty container he grabbed a crumpled napkin, already blotted with condiments, and wiped his mouth leaving only a small streak of ketchup on his cheek as proof the world was now three hamburgers less. Then he stood and walked with tray in hand to the garbage receptacle.
“Could this be another ruse?” Bim muttered to himself. “Perhaps he was just clearing his tray to order more, then more, then more. What if he ate till sun-up, then what?” Bim was unsure if he had the steely nerves needed for a daylight killing. There was something ancient in the night that coveted dark deeds, spawned them, nursed them in a motherly fashion to the point of validating a hammer to a head, a rope to a neck, a bat to a back or knife into ribs. There was safety in the sanctity of the night – dark times for dark deeds.
The man emptied the tray into the garbage and placed it neatly on top of a stack of other trays. He walked toward the exit.
This was it, another moment of truth. Bim’s eyes would no longer be victim to this man’s form. Accountability was at hand. Bim reached to the ground and took hold of the cattle prod. This time would be less messy than the last. Although he found fat people easy to kill — slow and slothy, any resisting strength weighed down in a body of cellular mud — finding the perfect way to do such a deed was proving to be difficult. “Trail and error,” thought Bim, “that’s how great ideas were formed. Trial and error, and perhaps a touch of patience, and maybe a cattle prod.”
The man walked out the restaurant and plodded towards his car. He reached into his pocket, found his keys and sorted them one by one. He stopped in front of his car door, heard a rustle, and looked left to see a small skinny man holding a crackling black stick.
“Yes?”
Bim closed the gap between him and the man inside the top end of a second and jabbed the prod into his chest. Electric clenches tore through the man’s body causing him to drop his keys and fall to his knees. The cap on his right knee popped beneath his weight but went unnoticed as his senses were wired to jolts of man-made lightning. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, his teeth ground against one another, and his body tightened with each taste of the cattle prod. After five long jolts his heart could take no more and the man collapsed into a pile of lifeless self.
Bim ran over to his van and peered around its corners. Seeing the streets empty, Bim felt certain no one saw him herding the man into the afterlife and proceeded to open the side door of his van. He threw the prod inside and hustled back to the body. He quickly bent over and felt for a pulse along the man’s neck. Nothing, in fact he was already beginning to get cold. “Hands or feet?” he thought. Bim crouched and flipped the body face up. He walked to the head of the body, reached down and took hold of both hands. There was a moment of pride Bim felt while dragging a body, much like he figured, a hunter from yesteryears would feel as he carried a deer through woods and valleys, over fallen trees and running streams on route to the homestead.
It was 5:28 a.m. when Bim pulled into his garage. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon casting an autumn coloured glow across rooftops. Things were serene and peaceful at this hour, quiet enough to notice a bird’s song or the smell of trees.
Bim dragged the carcass through the garage and into his house. “Linoleum is such a blessing.” thought Bim as the body glided across the slick surface and around the kitchen corner. He opened the door to the basement. The stairs were steep, wood, and with the lights out and the shadows steady, it looked like the entrance to a witch’s lair. Even though Bim lived here for the past fifteen years, the sight of this basement still spooked him. With the flick of a switch the shadows scattered and Bim felt childishly relieved a wart covered woman with a broom stick did not await.
Slowly, methodically, Bim led the body downstairs step by step with carefully managed tugs that minimized thumps and controlled speed. He had learned a valuable lesson the hard way with his first kill. The body had picked up speed and tumbled recklessly down atop him, knocking him out cold and pinning him beneath dead weight.
In the basement Bim dragged the lifeless man onto a plastic sheet which had been set up hours earlier. Hanging above the sheet was a pulley. Slipped through the pulley was a lengthy rope. One end of the rope was circled into a noose. Bim loosened the noose and slipped the man’s feet into its center before tightening its grip. He then pulled on the rope till the man’s head was knee high from the floor. After securing the loose end of the rope to a wall hook, Bim retrieved a large metal pail and placed it beneath the head of his victim.
Starting with the shirt, Bim disrobed the man by cutting off his clothes. Stains of bodily functions gone amok coated the man’s backside and trickled down into the pail. Bim grabbed a plastic bucket with water, a wash cloth, and wiped at the filth. When the body was finally clean, Bim donned his apron and gloves, grabbed his steel and keened out the sharp of his knife. “Shick! Shick! Shick!”, the blade spoke as it ripened itself with every pass until its edges were as straight as the cuts it would make.
Bim steadied the body as the first incision opened the man from navel to neck. Smatterings of half-coagulated blood piped out like pudding streams and glopped into the pail with a splotty sound of heavy rain. Using his hands he further opened the wound, though it could hardly be called a wound. A wound implied hurt and this man was now far beyond the reach of pain. He pulled on each side of the incision until there was a half foot space between them. The innards rarely fell out by themselves needing a good amount of elbow grease to totally free them. Top to bottom the inside came out starting with the intestines, next the stomach, followed by a liver and kidneys, then the lungs which usually took some extra attention and had to be peeled away like an orange skin. Finally came the heart and with a good tug snapped free from arteries. Though the stomach split revealing undigested lettuce and pickles, the rest fell nicely into the pail without much fuss and filled its size halfway full. Next was the head. Bim couldn’t stand the head and was anxious to remove it. There was something unnatural about a dead head. It was the only real reminder for Bim that all of us were once more than just meat. With a few good saws the knife skidded through the neck and arrived with a dull clank on the vertebrate. Turning the edge of the blade upward then down, Bim found the separating point between bones and popped the head free. The bucket now had to be emptied. He could hardly finish his work in the presence of a head, especially not one that fell eyes up.
The hole in his basement was a work of art if ever a hole could be considered such. Blame it on compulsion, neurosis or good old fashioned work ethics, whatever was the cause the forty foot deep, shovel dug hole, was a tribute to careful planning. Bim carried the bucket that carried the inside of a man who once was and dumped the contents down the hole. Barely an echo leapt from the bottom as unfamiliar people parts from five strangers collided, mingled, and mixed. Returning to the remains, Bim grabbed his knife and gave it a few more runs along the steel. After all, the key to fine butchery was of course a sharp blade.
Most of the cuts would be roasts but steaks and ribs were plenty too. From ass to elbow, meat to bone, all the remains were sliced for later use. Soup from bones for some days and roast for Sundays, Bim carved out out brunches and lunches and dinners for one. Steaks were at the minimum – thumb thick, ribs were left meaty, and roasts had ample marbling to give a fine blend of flavour to a day spent slowly braising in carrots, onions and their own juice. When the winter came, this hunter would not go hungry.
A year, several days and twelve murders passed since Bim’s first kill. He awoke that morning from sleep with a pasty mouth and indulgent food hangover. He crawled out of bed and made way for the bathroom. After relieving himself he stood and washed his hands. His sausagey fingers weaved in and out of themselves as the water cleared off soap. The mirror told no lies as Bim looked up. His breasts now drooped atop a rounded stomach. An extra flabby chin hung beneath his first chin and etched a deep line stretching from ear to ear. His face was puffy and red and his eyes matched.
Bim walked to the stairs and turned on the lights. Still no witches awaited, no boogie men premeditated, only shadows and lights. He walked down the stairs, slowly, carefully, and turned the corner. He gathered what was needed from the workbench and set them in place. With a sigh and shrug, he stepped into the center of the large metal pail and steadied himself. “Shick! Shick! Shick!” the blade sang as it ran its tongue along the steel. The incision of course was made from navel to neck.
Thanks for having a read.