Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are corpse, damage and knife. A salute to All Hallow’s Eve.
Urban Hunting
A corpse, drained of its blood, its other fluids, takes on a translucence that is unmatched in nature. Especially when it’s lit in a darkened alley by a building floodlight – and especially if there’s a mist that dews droplets on the cold flesh.
I know. I do the draining. I cause the damage.
The first was a cluster-fuck, blood everywhere. A decent Burberry suit burned in the trash incinerator, along with a cheap pair of Thom McAn shoes I was happy to part with.
The second was better, the Ka-Bar knife doing its job with wicked efficiency. And no blood on the clothing, not with the cheap plastic raincoat I found (in bulk) on 51st.
The third, well the third is where I hit my stride.
I’m a known commodity. Ask and you shall receive. I know how to acquire things. The things you have no earthly idea how to get.
The little fuck actually called it blow – seriously, who calls it blow these days? – and I told him to meet me at 11 around the corner.
“You don’t have any on you?” he whined.
A tilt of the head, raised eyebrows and he was off.
Just enough time to get another Ka-Bar.
What? You think I reuse, recycle? You know how many Ka-Bars are out there in so many shitty pawn shops – where an extra deuce makes the memories fade?
“Dude, you don’t know how happy I am that you’d hook me up,” he says as a way of greeting. “Big night tonight, need to be on my game.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” I say. “Follow.”
The manhole is already open, but the rain has already stopped – and that has made me a bit melancholy. Wet paper is stuck to the asphalt and it shines wet with the light from the lone spotlight.
“Nice raincoat – looks like a giant condom.”
And the Ka-Bar pierces his chest, just below the sternum through the transverse abdominal muscles and I twist to sever the abdominal aorta. My lambskin-gloved palm muffles his surprise.
And the guy drops where he stands – to the left of the open manhole.
I drop the Ka-Bar down the hole, produce a pair of emergency scissors that I swiped from the ER (these I keep) and cut away the dude’s cheap suit. Down the manhole they go, along with the raincoat. The body I move to the open hole, position the body spread-eagle, like Da Vinci Man.
And watch the skin cool to its spectacular translucence.
Urban Hunting
A corpse, drained of its blood, its other fluids, takes on a translucence that is unmatched in nature. Especially when it’s lit in a darkened alley by a building floodlight – and especially if there’s a mist that dews droplets on the cold flesh.
I know. I do the draining. I cause the damage.
The first was a cluster-fuck, blood everywhere. A decent Burberry suit burned in the trash incinerator, along with a cheap pair of Thom McAn shoes I was happy to part with.
The second was better, the Ka-Bar knife doing its job with wicked efficiency. And no blood on the clothing, not with the cheap plastic raincoat I found (in bulk) on 51st.
The third, well the third is where I hit my stride.
I’m a known commodity. Ask and you shall receive. I know how to acquire things. The things you have no earthly idea how to get.
The little fuck actually called it blow – seriously, who calls it blow these days? – and I told him to meet me at 11 around the corner.
“You don’t have any on you?” he whined.
A tilt of the head, raised eyebrows and he was off.
Just enough time to get another Ka-Bar.
What? You think I reuse, recycle? You know how many Ka-Bars are out there in so many shitty pawn shops – where an extra deuce makes the memories fade?
“Dude, you don’t know how happy I am that you’d hook me up,” he says as a way of greeting. “Big night tonight, need to be on my game.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” I say. “Follow.”
The manhole is already open, but the rain has already stopped – and that has made me a bit melancholy. Wet paper is stuck to the asphalt and it shines wet with the light from the lone spotlight.
“Nice raincoat – looks like a giant condom.”
And the Ka-Bar pierces his chest, just below the sternum through the transverse abdominal muscles and I twist to sever the abdominal aorta. My lambskin-gloved palm muffles his surprise.
And the guy drops where he stands – to the left of the open manhole.
I drop the Ka-Bar down the hole, produce a pair of emergency scissors that I swiped from the ER (these I keep) and cut away the dude’s cheap suit. Down the manhole they go, along with the raincoat. The body I move to the open hole, position the body spread-eagle, like Da Vinci Man.
And watch the skin cool to its spectacular translucence.
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