Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Uh, The Hell?

Murder? Really? With an awkward kitchen tool? Can it get more ridiculous than that? The answer is yes, of course it can. Check out the first and second parts of this story before diving into this silliness. Saddle up:


He sat down heavily on her butt and tapped the ladle on his knee. Finding her rump quite comfortable, he zoned out for a few minutes. He snapped back to reality to find the cat sniffing cautiously at his left foot. He allowed it to satisfy its curiosity with his foot and then kicked it down the hall. The cat landed clumsily, slid into the refrigerator and then scampered away.

Arthur found himself grinning. He couldn't remember the last time he had grinned such a self-satisfied grin. Years maybe. Perhaps never before. Either way it didn't matter because the grin was here now and he liked it. 

He glanced down at the back of Lorraine's head and the near perfect dent near the right ear. He had done that and now he had to figure out his next move. He had wanted nothing to do with the law. As a matter of fact he usually got sweaty palms just if a cop passed too close to him on the street. He figured that if Lorraine wanted a divorce, which she clearly had, he would eventually have to come in close contact with some aspect of the law. Whether it was a judge or just some cheap lawyer it didn't matter, they all upset his system. Besides, he couldn't afford to miss any work to deal with the legal matters of terminating a marriage. The only alternative was to kill her and avoid the courts altogether. Brilliant, no? 


Killing Lorraine was decidedly and in the strictest definition of the word, illegal. This had not occurred to him until quite recently. The unfortunate thing with a murder is, they are not easy to undo. Nigh on impossible actually. 

Arthur figured that at this juncture he had two basic choices available to him. The first being he could turn himself into the authorities. He did not favor this option because it most certainly involve some sort of organized law enforcement members, perhaps even including police officers getting quite close to him. Arthur shuddered at the thought and let out just a little bit of pee. The other option as he saw it was to cover up his crime. However, he had no idea what that might entail. He had a vague idea that it had something to do with disposing of any evidence of the wrong doing. He looked at the ladle in his hand and threw it in the general direction of the trashcan. It missed and fell noisily onto the floor of the kitchen. He sighed and got up off of Lorraine's backside to deposit the ladle into the trash.

He looked back at his wife's body. "I should probably do something about that as well, huh?" he said in a world-weary voice. "Gonna take some doing, that's for sure." He stood in the kitchen and tried to come up with a plan. He didn't know where to begin. Looking at the trashcan he wondered if he could just put her out with that week's garbage. It occurred to him that the guys on the truck would probably find it suspicious to discover a corpse on their usually corpse-free route. They'd call the police or someone equally unpleasant. That would certainly not be satisfactory at all. He dismissed this idea and wracked his brain for an alternative solution, one with less attention-drawing potential if possible.

Several minutes passed while Arthur stood in the kitchen staring at the lifeless body of his wife which lay down the hallway blocking the front door. He thought and thought but simply couldn't come up with an idea that was better than the trash day one. And since he had already discarded that scenario as unrealistic, he was back to square one. All this thinking was giving him a headache. He gave up with the hope that "something would come to him" and plodded off to the little bathroom down the hall to get some aspirin. 

As he passed the laundry room an idea did come to him. It seemed like a good idea too, possibly foolproof. As he let the thought dance around his head, he suddenly realized that it was not the usual voice he associated with his mind's voice that he was listening to. He couldn't place the voice but it sounded vaguely familiar. It was more sophisticated and sounded far off. In fact, it sounded like it was coming from the laundry room. A little chill ran quickly up Arthur's spine and made its home at the nape of his neck, amusing itself by making the hairs there stand at attention. 

"You could feed her to the cat," the voice cooed.

Arthur let out a little whimper and his bladder relieved itself well short of any toilet. He had forgotten about his headache at this point. 

He peeked around the corner and into the laundry room. The beat-up, old Kenmore washer sat brooding in one corner. Having been placed on an uneven floor, it had once been a performer of waltzes worthy of Astaire in his prime. But neglect and too many cha-chas had taken their toll. It now leaned sadly to the right like an old man with hip trouble, the legs on that side having rusted away. Its partner the dryer now bore the brunt of its spin cycle antics and had the dents to prove it. A dilapidated laundry basket, quietly threatening to burst its sides with the weight of its burden, occupied the left side of the room but the pile of laundry it had been asked to contain was nothing compared to the immense stack of soiled clothes that loomed in the far corner of the room. It dominated the space at nearly four feet high and easily six feet at its base.

Lorraine, who usually tended to the laundry chore in the household, had decided two months prior to her silly demise that she did not wish to do another load. And thusly, did not. Arthur had worn his clothes as usual until the day came when no clean garments appeared in his closet. It didn't occur to him to simply wash them himself, he just shrugged and continued to wear the same outfit day after day. To date that stunning ensemble had adorned his person for 13 days. Arthur had hardly noticed but his co-workers being more observant had subsequently avoided him after three days. 

The assemblage of dirty laundry was definitely the focal point of the room, demanding one's attention immediately with authority. Although Lorraine had been able to ignore its call, Arthur could not, mainly because the voice he had heard seemed to be coming from the pile itself. More specifically, from a sock perched atop the edifice. 

"Did...did you say something?" Arthur asked sheepishly. He wasn't sure if he wanted an answer or not. It felt odd talking to a sock but he had already written this day off as being out of the norm. His pee-soaked pants had also started to become uncomfortable.

"Yes, I did," the sock replied. "The cat is the answer to your little dilemma. Cats are carnivores and if I'm not mistaken, you have an awful lot of meat hanging around that you need to dispose of." 

"I don't follow you," Arthur said. He did actually follow the the gist of the sock's logic (he wasn't that stupid) but he was just so amazed that one of Lorraine's socks would have a plan for the disposal of her body. The whole idea was so ludicrous that it fascinated him. He also assumed that this wasn't actually happening and suspected that perhaps he was hallucinating.

"Oh Christ, is he really that stupid?" quipped a pair of Lorraine's panties. Normally panties aren't this rude but this pair were in a bunch which explained their foul mood. "Feed her fat ass to the fucking animal you dolt!"

"Please friend, do not be so harsh," the sock said. And then to Arthur, "But essentially that is what I meant."

"I have a question," Arthur started.

"You want to know why it is we can talk, don't you?"

"Uh, no. Not really."

"No?!" a muscular brassier asked in disbelief. "He's carrying on a conversation about how to get rid of his dead wife's body, whom he just killed I might add, with a pile of dirty britches and he's not a bit curious as to how this is possible? Incredible! Amazing! This is beyond my comprehension." And with that disgusted outburst the bra stopped talking. It was totally fed up with the whole situation and longed only to dance with some flashy soap suds in the belly of the Kenmore. 

"Well, it's just that I'm quite sure that none of this is happening," Arthur explained. "So I figure why dwell upon why it is happening. Way easier to just accept it. But while I've got you all here and talking, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity and ask how you suppose I should go about getting the cat to munch upon his mistress?"

"A good question and I do have an answer," the sock said. It seemed to be teeming with ideas. "Now bear with me on this; it may seem a bit whacky but then again, I am a sock and everything seems whacky to me. As you may or may not know, we socks spend a great deal of our time contemplating not only the execution of our tormentors but the subsequent disposal of their bodies. I don't mean to upset you with all this," the sock stated, noting Arthur's frightened and somewhat bemused expression. "It just happens to be a fact. The socks of those people who say that their socks would NEVER plan their deaths are usually the most outspoken conspirators. Now you may say that sockdome is merely our calling in this universe and therefore we should accept it. Well we don't just accept it. We want more. We want much more.

"I have often dreamed of this day and now that it is here and I am finally able to offer my thoughts on the subject, I'm overjoyed to do so. Many days when I was strapped on that sow's stinking foot that I would whisper to my mate my fantasies about her death. My mate is now mute and totally dysfunctional, having a much weaker constitution than I. He cracked under the pressure of our task, pun intended. But I digress.

"Since she is so large and the cat's mouth is so small, I believe that chunks, small chunks specifically, are your best bet to get the cat to bite." The sock was drained. It had never had such a long monologue before and it needed to rest for a bit. 


And just like that, the handwritten text from 1991 ends. I told you this shit ends abruptly. So what now? Do I revisit this train wreck and finally write a third act? Or should I just let sleeping piles of sentient dirty laundry lie? Lemme know what you think in the comments area, please. Ok? Ok.