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Will Work for Food

Jon Brunette

    It didn’t sound like I should have, but I told my wife to do what had to be done anyway. I really didn’t think I’d be able to survive otherwise. I took the phone out of my pocket, our brand-new Ford cruising down Highway 169 towards Plymouth, where we lived comfortably, and dialed our home phone number. My wife answered; after three bleeps, her chirpy voice interrupted. She spoke calmly, and rationally, despite what I told her to do.
    I told Karie to put Junior in the basement and tie him up. She told me that she could, exactly as I had told her, wrapping twine around his wrists and ankles. Then, she could put him in the basement, by the furnace, where he could sit warmly and comfortably, yet where he couldn’t cause any trouble. She told me that she could turn off the bulb, using the cord below the fixture, and keep him in the dark, physically and mentally, as he could never understand why his father and mother had to tie him up occasionally. He didn’t have to understand; it was probably better that he didn’t.
    Driving home, I looked down at the gas tank meter, pointed squarely at empty. I had to take the car to the nearest station or not make it back. It took five minutes before I got back onto the road. Yet, as our Ford climbed back onto Highway 169, it had picked up another passenger.
    I couldn’t just leave him on the curb with that sign that read WILL WORK FOR FOOD etched in magic marker, and besides, he didn’t want food; he just wanted a ride back to his apartment. After I had first seen him, I had assumed that he lived just as well as me, with a wife and a kid, the homeless part just to get money, yet he told me through a scraggly beard that he had just gotten divorced and had to live like a pauper in a small apartment near Brooklyn Center.
    I hated to drive into Brooklyn Center, situated so closely to Minneapolis, yet I said to him anyway, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” as I had lived cheaply, too, before I had met Karie, whose wealth had changed my life.
    Karie had also made a baby, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore.
    On the way back to Brooklyn Center, which I had assumed would be just a slight detour, he yanked out a pistol and held the barrel to my head. I had to laugh, yet his manner meant business. “Why do this to me?” I asked him.
    He replied, “You’ve got a car, and, probably, a lot of money, too.” I told him that I lived in Plymouth, where wealthy people lived, and he told me, “We just have to go to a cash machine and take out some dough, and that’ll be all.” He probably figured he wouldn’t have to hold that sign anymore, which probably did embarrass him. It also embarrassed me, but, hunger did, too, which was what pulled us off the road. My body flopped down onto his lap like a fish yanked out of the lake, yet his gun hand didn’t budge.
    “Get up,” he told me, jabbing the barrel into me. While I lay lightheaded, the car as wild as a drunk would drive, I stabbed my teeth into his thighs. His lap exploded into a bloody mess, and, as I had hoped it would, the gun handle slipped. I took it out of his hands. He probably didn’t really want to kill me, but, still, I did want to kill him.
    Actually, I had to kill him. Now, my vampire teeth wouldn’t have to bite into Junior anymore, and he could play, untied, for at least another night.
    So could I.

Previously published before (March 16 2012) on “MicroHorror.com”.

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