With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer

by J. R. Hamantaschen

  Maybe she should have stopped him. Maybe she would. She morally should, it was the right thing to do. She did like him a lot, but they had to be realistic, what with college and everything right on the horizon. Maybe talk about it in person. Texts were not the medium for nuanced explorations of affection. But for now, she liked the inherent promise of protection and trust embedded beneath that unassuming goofy text.

  She spent the next day blazing through short fiction and uploading some other reviews. The last piece she reviewed deserved three stars for its title alone — You Spit out my Coffee like you Spit out my Seed — and, as she declared in her review, for including the following sublime passage containing the typo of the year.

  The burly barista raised his head and released a yawl of his own, as his cock tensed up inside her, ready to explode. “Ironic, you’re a vegan who needs my meat to live,” he teased Candy, the cute new hire. “Mhmm, I can’t wait to unleash this new product. Small batch, limited release. Only available here,” he said, and pointed to this throbbing balls. His thick cock twitched inside her. She felt it contract and spurt hot liquid deep into her worm.

  Her worm! Classic. She let the likes and comments accumulate as she pored over he-who-shall-not-be-named’s Goodreads profile. Recusing herself from the obligation of reviewing his work was freeing. She now took an almost anthropological interest in this guy. She was fascinated. It took a lot for her to block someone on the site: hell, she didn’t think she actually blocked anyone before, and half the messages in her inbox were lewd inducements. If she could be assured he wasn’t bat-shit insane, she’d want to interview him.

  His profile page was filled with so much rambling, so much...confused anguish, juxtaposed and interspersed with these fucking cat-and-celebrities references. The fuck fest, birth, death, and birth again of Kitty Perry, began a recent blog post of his that caused her eyes to glaze over. Jesus, what a sordid little world she stepped into. KatMandu evidently had a particularly nasty streak of engaging in vindictive flame wars with hostile reviewers, which perhaps accounted for the downtick in takers for his collection. She saw online another contest of his, offering three copies of his collection with only 38 current bidders.

  >< >< ><

  “Holy shit,” Rose said. It was Friday around 4 p.m., and Karen and Rose were chilling, planning on grabbing dinner and chatting about Karen’s night to come. Rose was surfing the psycho’s Goodreads page. “I am fascinated. I want to subscribe to his newsletter. He is crazy. He is a work of art. If a car crash could turn into a human being and write, it’d be him. If he is obsessed with cats, why is the book named after an aardvark?”

  “I never read enough to find out. My loss. I imagine there is some stupid coda or post-script buried in the back, something like ‘haha you stupid faggot you read all this and there’s not even an aardvark story.’ Some things should just remain mysteries.”

  “I’m borrowing this.” She flipped through the book, put it in her school bag and returned to his profile page. Easier to put it in her school bag than keep it on Karen’s desk, where it might get swallowed up by the voracious clutter.

  “Make sure to read the story about the unlucky guy who shits out melting crap-babies!”

  “Oh, as if you needed to tell me. I wish we still did book reports in school.” Rose shook her head in something like befuddled awe as she pored over his profile page. “Is there a way to get access to his Goodreads page without actually signing up for Goodreads? I’ll admit it, I’m hooked. He actually might be cute, or cute-ish, hard to tell below all the crazy. He promises a big announcement tonight. I’m not embarrassed to admit I’ll probably look online to see what it is. Okay, so maybe I am a little embarrassed.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be blocking you from Goodreads soon, Sally Stalker. Come on, let’s go.” They were going out to Rizzo’s Fine Italian, about twenty minutes away, which, despite the chintzy name, was actually pretty good.

  “Are you going to wear that tonight?” Rose asked with a trace of friendly skepticism.

  Karen wasn’t one to get insecure, especially not about fashion, but she wasn’t a robot, dammit. “What’s wrong with this!?” She wore a tight-fitting, soft black sweater with a singular, oversized button at the top as a flourish, paired with black skinny jeans. “I think he will find it hot, tight-fitting.” She leaned in mock seductively. “Should I have more décolletage?” she pronounced in a husky sotto voice. “He’s seen my boobs before; he’ll want to unwrap them in this. Don’t deny him his fun!”

  “No, you crazy person,” Rose spoke as they made their way from Karen’s room, down to the living room, toward the door. “You wore that shirt this week. I remember it, you slob. Aren’t you trying to get sorta-laid tonight? Up your game!” Joan had already left earlier this afternoon for her double-shift, so they were free to profane and slut-talk all night.

  She shrugged. “Eh, he’s a guy, I doubt he noticed. Shee-it, I don’t even remember.” She wouldn’t admit it now, but she resolved to change when she got home.

  >< >< ><

  Rizzo’s was in fine form that day. Karen got the penne vodka, which always sounds fancy but totally isn’t, Rose got the veal cutlet (“you heartless bitch,” Karen teased), and, as Karen was prone to saying, a good time was had by all.

  It was around 8:30 p.m. when they got back to Karen’s house. She wished she’d left a light on — she always hated returning to an entirely darkened home. She was glad Rose was still with her, even though, of course, she’d have to skedaddle soon.

  They went into the house and turned on all the lights. The old home groaned, all its organs hissed to life as Karen adjusted the temperature.

  “Soooo … do you want me to leave now for your little date? Does it take some time to prime your vagina up or something?”

  “Just blowing the dust off. Easy-Peasy. Hah.” Karen mock-dusted her shoulder.

  “I think it’s probably more like,” Rose began, and blew hard on one hand while using the other hand to convey massive amounts of dust flying up into the atmosphere.

  Karen laughed, said “yeah right,” and then there was a brief silence. Karen, for some reason, felt a twinge of sadness, something about the dark quietude of autumn. She was so over this cold weather bullshit. Everything looked so sparse and dead. She didn’t admit this much, but she hated being alone, especially when she was waiting for something to happen. The night had a way of settling uncomfortably upon her. She was glad she wasn’t alone.

  “Nah Rose, it’s you, you stay. If it was anyone else, I’d tell ‘em to leave. But you, c’mon Rose, you … you can stay. Stay until like 9:45. Psych me up.” She thought about asking what the rest of Rose’s night might have in store, but didn’t.

  Rose plopped down on the living room couch, feet up on the ottoman.

  Karen wanted to pass this off as nonchalantly as possible, so as not to give Rose the satisfaction. “So, I’m going to go upstairs for a couple minutes.”

  “To change?”

  “Yes, you bitch, to change. Are you happy?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  With that, Rose pivoted her feet from the ottoman and took up the whole couch. It was a small couch — only intended for two, after all — and Rose’s long legs peeked over the side. She whipped out the damned book and adjusted the light behind her.

  “Take your time, this will keep me company.” Rose held the book before her with outstretched arms and gave the book a deep sinister voice, jostling and spinning it as if it was possessed, as if its demonic voice was so powerful it caused the whole book to quake: “Bwahahah, fear me Karen, fear me!”

  “Cute. Have fun with that. Any suggestions, by the way, on what I should wear?”

  “Your purple dress that shows off your rack.”

  “Noted.” That dress had a funky odor to it that needed to be addressed. Probably a pass.

  Karen made her way u
pstairs to her bedroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Hmm. She liked the way she looked in tight sweaters. Goth librarian. Hmm, maybe just a different sweater. She was something of a sweater-head.

  She checked her phone to see if there were any messages. Nope. She plugged it with the charger by the bed (“the power juice”) and debated whether to text Justin, just to make sure he was still coming. She hadn’t heard from him in a while. She relented, texted see you soon at 10 p.m. and then was ashamed, deeply, deeply ashamed. Patience, dear.

  She took her sweater off, exploring how she looked in her plush purple bra. Should we wear a purple sweater over it? With black pants? Yeah sure, typical, but for a reason. Hmmm.

  >< >< ><

  Rose wished the lighting in the living room was better. There was a standing lamp and two less-than-optimal bulbs on the ceiling that emitted hazy, dirty light. Why do dim bulbs even exist anymore? She knew so little about technology and science, she thought to herself, that she could read about an “amazing discovery” on one of those clickbait sites that just described the operation of a standard light bulb, and she’d probably be amazed and send it around with the subject line “Science is Awesome.” She laughed to herself and thought about how to explain the thought to Karen.

  If Karen was around, Rose would probably stay reserved and not allow her mien to register her unease with what she was reading. She’d just joke it off, be flippant about it.

  Karen actually gave out her home address to this psychopath?

  The smell of his inner organs made my cock hard. Knowing he was dead, that they were all dead. My cock got fully hard, and like usual I got momentarily dizzy because as I mentioned before my cock is like 10 inches. My super cock folded onto itself in a cork-screw like Tigger’s tail and I used it to bounce up and down. Cats don’t yell at the moon, but holding that faggot’s intestines called for something special. Sproing Sproing Sproing. I bounced on my cork-screw dick, which pounded a deeper and deeper hold into the earth with each bounce. I wrapped the intestines around my neck like I was Jake the Fucking Snake and it was 88 (and other things that kinda of rhymed). I put a warm piece of the offal under my balls because that felt nice and fuck it this was my time to shine.

  There was a little footnote next to “faggot’s intestines” which read: As I mentioned to those who don’t listen, I don’t have anything against gay people. My cousin is gay actually but I like the way the word sounds and I like pissing people off.

  Scanning the book would become her new M.O. She wanted to find that damn aardvark story.

  >< >< ><

  Karen, still in her purple bra, kept quiet and listened to the sounds of her house. Been a couple minutes and Justin had never responded. Don’t be like that, c’mon. She pretended to just be killing some time online but also hoped he’d affirm the plans in the next couple of minutes. He was the eager horny one, after all, i.e., the guy.

  Naturally she went to Goodreads, and it was only a couple of minutes until she ended up on guess-who’s profile. That was the gift she’d gotten from all of this. She’d always have the crazy psycho KatMandu to cyber-stalk. The tables have turned mofucka!! When the lines of communication were open, he’d been kind of scary. Now that they were officially closed, tracking him became fascinating.

  He had a new post.

  You pretentious assholes will like this, it’s a prose-poem. It’s my first time doing a prose-poem so bear with me. I’ll probably (read: definitely) be gone from Goodreads and life itself (is Goodreads life itself?). Just remember whatever they say about me isn’t true, unless it’s a positive thing and then it’s definitely true.

  And by the way, my stories will, from now on until forever, be free on Kindle and Nook and all that other shit. That’s so I can profit off my crimes, at least in terms of exposure. And if they get removed from the online places just know that I’ll soon be famous and I’m sure they’ll be available to find. I have Dylan Klebold’s story on my computer, for example.

  So anyway, here goes:

  Your Mommy worked at a hospital,

  What rhymes with hospital?

  Unstoppable.

  Note I say worked, past tense

  Too bad for Mommy, you were dense

  The work I showed her was too intense

  Now there’s nothing left of her but stench

  But stench? Butt stench.

  Plus I pissed down her throat and it spilled out the slit.

  Mommy said she loved you!

  And there was a picture of him, this time in a flinty matte cardboard mask with holes cut out for the eyes. She could practically see the double-duty rubber band around the back of his head which held up the mask. A dot nose with three curved lines on each side for whiskers and a frenetic “O” of a mouth were drawn on in what looked like blue pen. She could see two blue triangular shapes on his head. Ears, she presumed.

  It was obviously a selfie. From the looks of it, he was taking the picture with his right hand. He was leaning into the picture, and his face took up the right side of the frame. He offered his upturned left hand to the camera as if in supplication. It was thoroughly covered in what was intended to be blood. It’s like he dipped his whole left hand and even part of his arm in red, clotting paint.

  There was something else in his left hand, but it was too low-resolution to really make it out. It was rectangular and silver, reminded her of a Monopoly piece. Life experience told her it looked like a name tag, like her Mom wore while she was on nursing duty.

  The picture looked like it was taken inside a car, she figured. He was leaning on seats.

  The post was time-stamped at 7:23 p.m. Posted today. She checked her phone. No response yet from Justin. It was 8:54 p.m.

  She had the urge to text her mother, something simple, something both loving and friendly, but didn’t. She wanted her phone charged.

  She popped open her bedroom door and yelled down the stairs: “Hey Rose. Rose! Come up here for a second. I’m in a bra, you’re in luck, c’mon up here!”

  No response.

  She hated the stillness in the house. She moved and shifted just to feel some activity, get her blood moving, as if her heart wasn’t already beating out of her chest and she was doing her best to ignore it.

  “Hey Rose!” She made her way downstairs without turning the corner. She peeked around the corner because she was still in her bra, even though she had no shame about it whatsoever and usually couldn’t care less. She could see the empty kitchen before her and, through the kitchen’s glass window, the pocket-sized backyard where they’d last gotten high.

  She felt vaguely nostalgic and then, vulnerable. She should go change but wanted to hear Rose’s voice first.

  She turned the corner, entered the living room and saw it was fully-lit, Rose sitting and reading on the couch.

  “Yo, what’s good,” Rose looked up at her. “Nice ta-tas. Save ‘em for tonight.”

  Karen entered and bore witness to an alien visage. Rose was talking casually and normally, as if there was supposed to be someone standing right behind her, like it was no big deal, like Karen was the crazy one for holding her breath and wondering what in the fucking hell was going on. Karen froze, waiting for an explanation, not processing exactly what she was witnessing.

  “Rose! What’s going on?”

  Rose looked at her quizzically, still imbued with her usual sass. She couldn’t parse the sheer bewilderment that was Karen’s face. She followed Karen’s eyes and turned her head around, looked up to see what was behind her.

  Her widened, dinner-plate eyes. Shock. Shock. She was shocked and there was no explanation.

  A figure in cat ears and a paper plate mask.

  “Kare-”

  A serrated blade plunged into the area where Rose’s neck and chest met.

  What came out was only a muffled gasping wheeze mixed with gargli
ng. She reached her hand out to Karen, her expression raw panic.

  She fell backward onto the couch, almost in the same position she’d been in when she’d been just killing time reading.

  He raised the bloodied knife in the air and brought it down squarely through her neck, with such force that it pierced through her throat and came out the other end, burrowed deep into the cushions of the couch. The masked man steadied his left hand on Rose’s shoulder and jerked the knife out of her neck with his right.

  In that instant Karen noticed so many things, all fighting for primacy in her brain, overwhelming her. How the torque of the knife-pulling had two distinct motions — first removing the knife from the innards of the couch, then removing the knife from the gape of Rose’s neck. That he was wearing a light green — almost puke green — down jacket, with the hood halfway up. He didn’t pull the hood up so I can see his cat ears. He was a bit taller than she expected — taller than 6 feet, maybe 6’2”, definitely much taller than her, and built lean. He stared at her from beneath the paper-plate mask, and she couldn’t see the details of the mask but who fucking cares, why was her brain trying to see it, run, run, run.

  While never breaking eye contact, he lodged his left thumb into Rose’s pulsing wound to tear it open even more. He did it casually, with no sense of urgency, like he was feeling for change under a couch cushion. Her brain filled in the sound of Velcro, of cheap leather, tearing.

  The enervating compression of her nerves was over. Karen turned on a dime and ran toward the kitchen behind her. Her legs got the better of her and they quite literally galloped over each other, tripping her up and sending her gliding toward the floor, but she caught herself and pressed on. Five long strides and she was in the kitchen.

  She reached toward the wall by the refrigerator, in almost phantom-panicked hallucination, imagining her grandmother’s heavy corded phone she could use to smash him over the head. But that phone was long gone, a product of another time, an innocent unfathomable era now. No phone, not a weapon, phone upstairs, think, think, think. Interspersed through the explosive panic was a flat memory of her mother talking on a phone in the kitchen, something jejune, cruelly bobbing up from the swamp of her memory as if it was something noteworthy. Snap out of it, focus. Get a knife, a pot, a weapon.