Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror

by Sachs, Zané

  He looks good—clean shaven and neatly pressed. Damn. Why do my legs feel like gummy worms? Would I feel this uncomfortable sensation in my gut if I were a robot? I don’t think so. If I were a simulacrum, the synthetic humans Philip Dick writes about, would I be short-circuiting? Being a real person sucks. My stomach’s doing somersaults and making strange noises. I wonder if I’m hungry.

  Lowering my new Louis Vuitton sunglasses, I give Marcus the seductive look I’ve been practicing.

  His eyes sparkle with amusement.

  “Nice shades, Sadie. Have you been avoiding me?”

  I shake my head.

  “You haven’t called my office.”

  This morning I did body maintenance—washed the hair, applied mascara to the lashes, glossed the lips—so Sadie’s looking good. Now I’m working on her programming, so her image matches what comes out of her mouth.

  Arching an eyebrow (do you know how much practice it takes to arch one eyebrow?), I say, “I want you to be my friend.”

  “Of course I’m your friend, Sadie.”

  “I want you to be my friend.”

  The sparkle in his eyes dims.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my patient.”

  “I quit therapy.” Avoiding his gaze, I shuffle through my mail. Two credit card statements, an advertisement from a car dealership, and the new Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Hiding the catalogue under bills, I change the subject, “Where’s Caramel?”

  “In California with her mother. She gets Carmela for the school year. I get her for the summer and Christmas. Why have you quit therapy?”

  “That must be difficult for Caramel.”

  “I think you should give the process a chance.”

  “It sucks, not having two parents.”

  “She has two parents, Sadie.”

  The more uncomfortable he looks, the more at ease I feel.

  “Why do you think your marriage failed?”

  “Why does any marriage fail?” Marcus glances at his watch. “I’ve got to go—”

  “Come over for dinner Wednesday?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m a good cook.”

  “I know, but—”

  Victoria Secret slips from my hands and falls onto the ground. A woman in a lace bra and thong looks up from the lawn. Before I can grab it, Marcus scoops up the catalogue and hands it back to me. Our fingers touch.

  “Just a neighborly supper. Six thirty?”

  “All right, I’ll stop by for a little while.”

  He walks toward the parking lot, hesitates, keeps walking.

  I watch his ass and wonder, if I use priority shipping, will my purchase arrive before our dinner date?

  The spell breaks when my cell phone rings.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “I can’t find my shoes.”

  “Have you tried the closet?”

  No point in mentioning that I haven’t been to his place since Christmas. My last visit did not go well. When I cooked him dinner, he spat out the meat and accused me of poisoning him. When I was a kid, he used to do that to my mother. No doubt she would have killed him, if he hadn’t killed her first. Anyway, I’m not a fan of Phoenix. It’s a giant traffic jam and hot as hell. No wonder my father moved there. It suits him.

  He’s yelling about loafers.

  I’m not sure if he’s referring to me, or shoes, but I hang up.

  I rode my bike to work as usual, and clouds rolled in without warning, so I got caught in the rain. Colorado is like that in August, clear mornings, cloudy afternoons, and then it pours all night. No one complains, because we need the moisture. But now I’m wet.

  As I walk into the store, I notice a display of corn outside, another at the entrance, a third by cut fruit in Produce.

  The remodel is nearly finished. The Grand Opening is scheduled to coincide with Labor Day weekend at the end of the month, two weeks from now. The construction crew is done with Deli, Bakery, Meat, and now they’re working in Produce—switching out the floor from concrete to wood for the rustic look, replacing display cases, remodeling shelves. They’ve installed a new sprinkler system for the wet rack. Now, every time you try to grab a bag of carrots or head of lettuce, you risk a thunderstorm. Happens to me all the time when I check sell-by dates.

  The Produce Manager keeps adding jobs to my routine—checking sell-by dates and doing markdowns, facing lettuce, and now I’m in charge of dried fruit and nuts. He told me raisins are my number one priority. First thing each day, I’m supposed to grab the cart and work the back stock, which means fill holes and use a handheld scanner to determine what we’ve got and what we need to order. It’s a big responsibility. And, frankly, it’s a challenge.

  Most produce carts are sturdy, so they can support heavy boxes of onions, potatoes, squash, macho stuff that requires muscle to stock. At all times these carts must carry a crate of bananas (our number one seller), a spray bottle of water, and box of paper towels for cleaning. Not my cart. The fruit and nut cart is a cockeyed U-boat stacked with off-kilter, mismatched boxes: raisins, prunes, almonds, peanuts, rice crackers, apricots—stuff none of the guys want to work. Too gay, I guess. Thanks to the remodel, dried fruit has been relegated to an aisle far from Produce, next to oatmeal. Consequently, I have to roll my tipsy cart across the store, weave through people and displays, and hope a crate of Craisins doesn’t tumble off and knock out a customer.

  Planning my strategy for the day, I walk, head down—my sneakers (red Converse All Stars) squeaking, thanks to the rain inside and out—and run into the Produce Manager. Literally. He’s crawling around the floor by the berry display. At first I think he’s looking for a contact lens or something, but then I realize he’s tracking wayward labels.

  “Change in plans,” he says without looking up.

  “I know, raisins and nuts. I’m about to get the cart.”

  “Forget nuts. Corn.”

  My shoulders sag.

  “How much?”

  He grunts, attempting to peel a label off the floor.

  “As much as you can do. Olathe is big. Very big. Customers can’t get enough.” He pulls out a box cutter, distends the razor, and points the blade at a trough of corn. “I’ve filled that bin ten times today, set that trash can next to it so people can shuck their own. Gonna be this way through the Grand Opening and Labor Day.”

  “Maybe we should plant a cornfield in the middle of the store, so customers can pick their own and enjoy the full corn experience.”

  He stops scraping, considers my idea, then says, “Chop, chop.”

  The doctor (not Marcus, a real doctor) gave me braces to hold my wrists in correct alignment, and they help. My hands have stopped going numb at night, but when I cut corn, the vibration from chopping kinks my neck and makes my fingers tingle. You might imagine I’m unhappy—delegated to standing on cold concrete, wearing wet sneakers, cutting corn all day—but I’m too excited about my dinner date with Marcus tomorrow evening to be bummed. In fact, I feel elated.

  Riding the elevator down to the dungeon, I plan the menu. Perhaps an aphrodisiac. Oysters on the half shell with a squeeze of cunt juice for an appetizer? Asparagus spears, creamy avocado, and deviled eggs for the main course, served with a sauce of garlic, basil, and fresh come? Nipples dipped in chocolate for dessert…

  I’m humming along to some disco ditty from the 1970s, feeling ecstatic, but my mood shifts when I enter the work area. Some guy I’ve never seen before is standing at the sink up front where Liam should be crisping vegetables. This guy is about 6 foot 5 and must weigh close to three hundred pounds. He’s wearing shorts and a plastic yellow apron, hosing down Romaine lettuce. Behind him, there’s a cart stacked with bins of broccoli, cilantro, parsley, and leeks.

  “Where’s Liam?” I ask. “On vacation?”

  “You could say that. He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Fi
red.”

  The goliath plunges a head of lettuce into a vat of icy water.

  I gasp, like I’m drowning.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “Insubordination. Refused to use the intercom. They wrote him up.”

  “Who?”

  “Terri, I think.”

  Just as I suspected.

  Terri the Terrible.

  This calls for action. Nothing short of revolution. Terri has nothing on Marie Antoinette. I grab the guillotine, stomp to my corner, no longer shivering and cold, but steaming. I slam an RPC of corn onto the stainless steel counter, preparing to decapitate.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  Shuck, shuck, shuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I want to kill someone.

  I want to kill a lot of people.

  Not only Terri the Terrible, but the Produce Manager who’s so busy scraping labels off the floor that he let Liam get fired, and that hulk washing lettuce nonchalantly. I want to kill the entire store, the entire corporation—an evil empire conspiring to control the food supply, force-feeding the population genetically engineered soy and corn designed to convert our DNA and transform us into robot slaves. They’re in bed with the government. It’s a worldwide conspiracy.

  Pressure builds inside my head. My brain aches. I stop chopping, lean against the counter. Gray matter oozes from my ears, eyes, mouth, nostrils as my mind expands, pushing the boundaries of my skull until my head explodes. Neurons shoot threads of light through my consciousness linking me to a network so complex, so vast and powerful, by comparison the World Wide Web seems as archaic as television. Commands are dispatched directly to my cerebrum, reprogramming circuits, mutating neurotransmitters, rebuilding pathways and transforming me into an entity beyond human.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  They’re planning a grand event to coincide with Labor Day.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  A directive will be transmitted, initiating activation.

  Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.

  Surveillance must be vigilant.

  Due to the remodel, management is on high alert, working in conjunction with government agencies. The FDA, CIA, FBI, and highly secretive CORN (Corporate Operatives Reordering Neuropathy). As the Grand Opening approaches, spies drop in unannounced to check on the store’s progress. The new guy washing lettuce is obviously an operative.

  Sent to terminate subversives like Liam.

  Like me.

  I grab another crate of corn.

  Chop, and chop, and f@#king chop.

  Timing is everything.

  Speaking of timing, scheduling the Grand Opening to coincide with Labor Day raises the temperature of my thermostat to boiling. Labor Day is supposed to be a holiday to honor laborers—not bosses. The store should be closed for business, throwing a picnic for its workers—at least providing a day of rest so our systems can be updated. Instead, while corporate big shots loll around the pool or lake, drinking and barbequing, employees will be slaving away in basements. No double-time, not even time-and-a-half. Holiday pay is obsolete. Ten years from now, if you’re not a robot slave, you won’t have a job.

  I wonder how Liam’s going to pay his rent.

  I’d like to give him a going away present. A robot. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple bot with a quiet personality. A bot who could do his job—stocking vegetables and fruit, removing the rotten stuff from bins, helping customers locate leeks and ginger root. A bot who wouldn’t mind speaking on the intercom and who’d bring the paycheck home to Liam.

  I’ve been watching videos on YouTube. Robots are advancing fast. Some fly, some walk, others look like crabs or snakes. Amazon delivered my new waterproof, hot pink vibrator in less than fifteen minutes using a flying drone. (Good thing; I needed it for an emergency.) And the Japanese have developed humanoids that look like people. They plan to replace us ASAP. That’s where this store is heading. That’s what they want us to be. Humanoids who’ll work around the clock for nothing. No complaints. Humanoids who don’t demand insurance. Bots with an extended warranty, because this place will overload them until they short-circuit.

  In a year or two, when robots take over, I’m not sure how I’ll earn a living. Maybe Corporate will give us an option to convert, to upload our brains into our replacements.

  Maybe that’s already happened.

  If a robot kills a human, who’s responsible? The owner? The manufacturer? The programmer?

  Chop, chop, chop.

  A robot can’t be held accountable.

  Recipe: Sadie’s Aphrodisiac Ragoût

  Ragoût, a well-seasoned stew of meat and vegetables, is a French term, meaning “to revive the taste.” Who knows more about food and sex than the French? So, when you want to rev the action in your bedroom, try this tasty aphrodisiac. For a bigger bang, I’ve taken a traditional recipe and made a few choice substitutions.

  Aphrodisiac Ragoût

  Ingredients:

  1 pound penises (I prefer fresh over frozen)

  Freshly ground black pepper

  2 tablespoons olive oil (extra virgin, natch)

  5 tablespoons butter

  1 pound mixed mushrooms, cleaned

  1 medium shallot, chopped fine

  ½ teaspoon Dijon mustard

  1 teaspoon Herbs d’ Provence

  ½ cup vermouth

  ½ cup heavy cream

  Salt

  Come (to taste)

  Spritz of cunt juice

  Preparation:

  Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Season whole penises with salt and pepper. Meanwhile heat a large, cast iron skillet on medium-high heat. When skillet is hot, add oil and heat till simmering, then add one tablespoon of butter. When butter has melted, add penises, sear, browning like sausages. Transfer skillet to the oven and roast for about ten minutes. Remove penises to a cutting board, tent with foil, and let meat rest for another ten minutes.

  Meanwhile, cut the mushrooms into quarters. Heat 2 tablespoons butter in the skillet over medium-high heat, making sure butter doesn’t burn. Add the mushrooms, and increase heat to high. Let mushrooms brown, then turn. Add more butter if the pan seems dry. Add the shallot and sauté for about two minutes. Season with salt, pepper, mustard, and Herbs d’ Provence. Pull pan from heat, and add vermouth. Return pan to heat, and scrape any brown bits from bottom with a spoon. Add cream. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat.

  Jerk off.

  Stir in fresh come.

  Slice penises crosswise, and arrange on a platter. Smother with mushrooms. Top with a spritz of cunt juice, and serve with a side of asparagus.

  Dinner Date

  The curtains are drawn and evening light filters through the blood red fabric, casting a warm glow on my apartment. I’m streaming love songs on Pandora—mid-twentieth century stuff my dad might play by Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett—the kind of songs you’d hear in a classy restaurant.

  I’m hoping the music will put Marcus in the mood.

  Since my conversion, I have trouble relating to anything romantic. Truthfully, I no longer see the point of having sex with other people. It’s an act best executed alone, a measure taken for self-maintenance to ensure all circuits are performing. I jerked off earlier, while preparing dinner, and the outcome proved more than satisfactory. Truthfully, the idea of sex for procreation seems random and messy ... obsolete.

  But, for the sake of scientific research, I’ve set the stage for a romantic evening. And I have a hunch fucking with Marcus will reawaken my libido.

  Dinner’s simmering on the stove. I’ve popped open a bottle of Shiraz and thrown a tablecloth over the chest freezer, so the food can be served buffet style. I even lit candles. And I’ve sharpened all the knives.

  I’m wearing the Black Widow jumpsuit I bought online, had it shipped overnight. It’s more provocative than anything I saw in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, made of stretchable Pleather t
hat hugs my curves. I washed and styled the red hair I took off that snotty insurance adjuster, and I’m wearing her scalp. (I tried to pin her hair into a chignon, but had to settle on a bun.) Knee high black boots add the finishing touch. I gaze into the mirror, turning one way, then another, admiring my transformation. Natalia Romanova, check me out. Sadie the Sadist is the newest and baddest Avenger.

  I wish my left knee would stop shaking.

  My system is on overload. I need to reboot, but there’s no time.

  Marcus will be arriving soon.

  To calm my nerves, I pop another Xanax and wash it down with wine. In some ways, I’m still human.

  I head back to the living room, push aside the curtain and peer into the courtyard.

  No sign of Marcus.

  Two young mothers stand by the sandbox, talking, while their kids run around. I recognize the little girl from downstairs, one building over. She’s making a ruckus, driving her pink battery-operated car around the cement walkway. A boy on a bicycle cuts in front of her, and she honks her horn.

  Marcus should be here any minute.

  The pink car crashes into the bike. The boy, the bike, the car and girl careen off the walkway.

  My doorbell rings.

  How did Marcus sneak by me?

  I run to the entryway, press my eye against the peephole. Despite the double dose of Xanax, my stomach is flip-flopping like a hooked trout. I wish that fish would hurry up and die. Gorski and Redbear stand on my doorstep. Gorski leans toward the door and his eyeball peers into mine.

  I consider my options:

  1. Pretend I’m not here and hope they go away—fat chance, since Gorski just gave me an eye exam.

  2. Hurry to the bedroom, jump off the balcony and run—I’ll probably break a leg.

  3. Open the door and find out what they want.

  “Officers, what can I do for you?”

  “Evening, Mrs. Bardo. Please open the door.”

  Reluctantly, I undo the chain.

  “Hope we’re not interrupting—”

  Gorski’s gaze travels to my cleavage.

  I zip up the jumpsuit.