This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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Roberta Newsome deserved to die but redemption required bloodshed, not death. To that end, the end he knew she wanted, Marty Byron Brown programmed 9-1-1 into his cell phone so that when the task was completed he’d simply press the numeral one, state his address, and notify the operator of needed assistance. Surely, things wouldn’t get that far out of hand; no more so, say, than they already had.
At present, Marty was in control of the situation. His victim lay taped to the coffee table in what Marty called his living room. He referred to the other room as the bedroom only because it held the futon upon which he slept, but the space could not accommodate a dresser or nightstand. The final room in the apartment was one that the apartment manager called a kitchenette, but which Marty called a closet. The bathroom, shared by all the tenants, rested two floors below. All the rooms lay silent now, save for Marty’s ragged respiration and the hum of the overhead florescent light.
Of course, it’s quiet, he thought. His victim was small, insignificant even, and unable to make a sound. Taped to the table through no fault of its own (and what once had a name was now an “it”), and it was unaware of Marty’s intent. Said intent, obsession perhaps, and the reason behind the call for redemption was planted in Marty’s mind not by an it but by a woman, one made not of sugar and spice, remarkably like all women.
“Roberta Newsome,” Marty said, wondering at the ugliness with which the words rolled off his tongue. His voice sounded infantile as it pin-balled around the room. The tiny voice reverberated off the front door, upon which hung a poster of Guns ‘N Roses’ front man, Axl Rose, brushed over the nineteen-inch black and white television set, swirled its way like smoke from a demon’s throat along the arm of the recliner and down the length of the second-hand brown sofa back to Marty. Upon reaching him, it snaked into his ear and wormed into his brain.
Once there, the tiny voice spoke.
“Roberta?” it said. “Old news. Why all the drama now?
Heat seethed into Marty’s cheeks. The mention of her name was still too much, somehow; somehow taboo. These days, hearing the name meant hearing the giggle. And what right had she to giggle? Her with hair the color of dying leaves, eyes brown as fresh-tilled soil, and a thickness in the middle that stole forever the woman she wanted to be. She was an average thinker and, though he’d now never know, an average lover. But he had loved her long before that little black dress hit the floor and she’d shown him there was no such beast as love.
“Look around,” Marty said in reply. “I don’t have squat. A junker t.v...a threadbare recliner.
Marty wanted to continue his indulgence in pity but the voice interrupted.
“Yeah, but you do have a good sense of humor...
“But not enough money...
“And a nice smile.
“Money--it’s all about money. That and--
“And emotional compatibility?” said the voice.
“Emotional what?” said Marty. He chuckled, slid his hand across the scratched and dented surface of the table. His palm left a trail of sweat as he reached past the duct tape for the hatchet. He’d bought it yesterday at Dewey Hardware, disposed of the receipt and noticed no security cameras as he left the store. Even if the store was equipped with a video surveillance system, it didn’t matter, as death was not a necessary component to his redemption. Death, no, a mere bit of dismemberment.
“How ‘bout trustworthiness?” asked the voice.
“Not what girls want.”
“Faithfulness?”
“Fat chance,” said Marty.
“Kindness? Responsibility?”
“Kindness and responsibility don’t...um...satisfy them. No. It’s money and...” Marty didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to think about the implications--the shallow, physical implications of that all-important void women so greedily needed filled. He wanted a drink--just a swill of beer--but for now couldn’t go to the fridge to get one. Well, he thought, maybe after...
After, all would be well.
“So,” said the voice that had wormed into his head. “They’ll only stay for money?
“Well, regardless of the rest of you--all you’ve mentioned and other...things--they’ll stay, they’ll ‘love’ you if you have enough green.”
Marty wrapped his hand around the hatchet handle. It was cool to the touch for he’d earlier opened a window attempting to dry the sweat derived from his preparatory exertions, most of which were mental. He struggled with the idea for two hours, weighing the pros and cons of his plan, before accepting it and deciding to make it fact.
“But before that,” said Marty, “I sifted through the grains of reason for two months. Two months. I wouldn’t have had to, but she giggled. She giggled. I had offended her, and she me. But it’s okay now.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yes. Just think how much more I’ll achieve. When I’m done with this and done with her, I’ll be able to concentrate as no man ever could. My days will gain hours. Clarity will spread apart the clouds of confusion and... Well, let’s just say there’ll be no more miserable wishes in the shower or over the toilet. Just time to accomplish...things.”
A shiver worked up through Marty’s body, grazing his spine with electric and invisible fingers. His shoulders tensed. Gooseflesh sprouted on his bare legs. His calves, feet and ankles tingled with numbness from kneeling before the table and his victim for well over an hour now, his resolve strengthening with the passing minutes. Despite the voice in his head, and the pain in his body, his will hardened.
“So,” said the voice, “no love then?
“Sure. There is love. But it’s between parents and their children. Well, there’s even love between friends. Between men and their male friends. Between women and their female friends. People even love their pets. But there’s no romantic love, not between men and women. Lust. That’s all there is. An image in one’s mind of what should be. And if that image manifests in a member of the opposite sex then all is well. If not...”
“If not, she giggles?”
“Yes,” Marty said, his voice too loud in the confines of the room.
“Despite one’s wit, one’s charm? One’s intelligence, education...common interests? Opinions?”
“Yes. I told you. Money and--”
“--And if not--”
“If not, you already know. She’d taken off her clothes. And she was no Victoria’s Secret model, but she could have what she wanted when she wanted. That’s what women do. They say when and how and it doesn’t matter why. They say ‘yea’ or they say ‘nay.’ They take a look or cop a feel, decide, and if need be, search for greener pastures. See, we’re back to money and...”
“She lay there waiting for you and...”
“And I thought she loved me. Thought that was why people did what we were about to do. I thought, silly me, the person in the body was most important. Now, she was no looker, but still good to see. And I liked her, her opinions, her charm. And, I’ll tell you this, I’m thankful to her because--”
“Because she giggled.”
Marty’s face flushed. The remembered embarrassment equaled the initial embarrassment. There’d been nothing to do then as he looked upon the woman he loved, loved despite her own faults--her belly, her non-existent bosom, and the saddlebags at her thighs--but pull up his pants and go. At the time, he figured she would still acquiesce, but his desire wilted like the rest of him. She could go find her own Long John Holmes, if that’s what she needed. But it had been clear that she didn’t need him. He wasn’t, it appeared, man enough for her.
The cutting edge of the hatchet gleamed in the light. It, at least, was ready. It didn’t feel. It didn’t receive giggles when it was bare. No, its hardened, sharpened curve could treat a woman the way she needed to be treated. It could pound, drive, and go as deep as necessary. Marty once believed he could, too; thought that because he was who he was that Roberta wanted to receive him, that she’d enjoy his body as she enjoyed his presence, but...
“She giggled,” said the voice.
“Yes. And pointed,” he said and sighed. “I wasn’t enough. Because I was excited, though, I went home and finished the job, sweating over the toilet for almost an hour because I wanted her...needed her, hand lotion dripping to the bowl with each subsequent application. Lubrication wasn’t enough, though, for I needed to forget her giggle. I had to be big enough for me. So, in addition to the lotion, I brought a ruler to the bathroom. I measured myself in the instant before I finished and found that she giggled at six and a half inches. Nearly two across. But...”
“Still she giggled.”
“Yes. Money or a big dick. Imagine if you had both. Still, she giggled, this woman I loved. It offended her that I had so little to work with, so little with which to please her. So little as to be unable to please her. And that offended me. I didn’t choose my penis. And only it counted. My love did not. What matters is my member. And it offended me. And you know what the Good Book says about the body’s offending members. Money. Big dick. I’ve neither.”
“But average is five and a quarter.”
“Six in some books.”
“But you’re better than both. Why, that means some guys have but three or four inches.”
“She giggled.”
Marty lifted the hatchet. He looked down at the table. A ruler lay there. It showed that the limp penis, the one he’d once named “Big Red,” taped to the table was exactly four inches long. The two and a half inches it grew when he wanted a woman weren’t enough. They just weren’t.
Sadness and hope mingled within Marty. He’d miss himself, but he hoped the loss would increase his happiness. He’d devote himself to life, not women.
“I’ll just press one when I’m done,” he said.
