Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror

by Sachs, Zané

  “Would you like some Kava tea, Marcus?”

  I have to lean close to hear him.

  “Fuck you.”

  He says fuck a lot. I never realized how much he cursed, until he moved in. It’s amazing what you learn about another person when you live in close proximity.

  “Have some tea. It will relax you.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking psycho.”

  “Is that your professional diagnosis?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  “I don’t think that’s how a psychiatrist should speak.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Would you like some sauerkraut? It’s homemade.”

  He tries to sit, but with one stump, he has trouble gaining traction and slips to the bottom of the tub. I reach behind his head, attempting to rearrange his cushions, but he slaps my hand away.

  “Marcus, I’m trying to help you.”

  “Just kill me, bitch.”

  “No need for nasty names.”

  I pull away his blanket, revealing what remains of his left leg. I wrapped his stump with duck tape to stop the bleeding, but it’s leaking greenish pus. Nothing much remains of his right leg, just a ragged bit of thigh. It looks red and swollen. The duck tape bandages make it impossible for me to tell if his stumps are healing.

  I poke his knee, checking for infection.

  He grabs my wrist and bites.

  “Oooowwww!”

  He sinks his teeth deeper, breaking the skin.

  I jerk my hand away.

  “Animal!”

  Holding up my wounded hand, I watch blood ooze from my wrist and trickle down my arm. My blood. It’s staining my uniform. I don’t deserve this kind of treatment. I’m trying to control my temper, but there’s only so much I can take.

  I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the sharp points of my canines.

  He’s thrashing his arms, trying to escape, attempting to stand on his stump, but he keeps falling.

  I remind myself not to yell, to practice nonviolent communication, but how can I feel empathy for a person who bites me like a rabid animal?

  “Kill me, Sadie, please. Get it over with.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to spend the holidays alone.”

  “Labor Day?”

  “There’s also Columbus Day, Veteran’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas.” I emphasize Christmas, because it’s a sore point.

  “You have your dad.”

  I snort.

  Last year, when I visited my father, he insisted we go Christmas shopping, so I took him to the mall. Macy’s. I parked the car, we got as far as Shoes, and then he took off, shooting through the store at about fifty miles per hour. Spotting his orange Suns’ cap bobbing through the crowd, I attempted to follow him. In case you’ve never been there, Macy’s is a madhouse during the holidays. I lost him around Men’s Wear. Had to call Security.

  We found him fingering the panties in Women’s Lingerie.

  Marcus knows this story, knows the trauma it caused me.

  “I’m sending socks for Christmas.”

  Marcus groans.

  “I’m not going to see my father. I’d rather shoot myself than spend another holiday with him.”

  “I’ll lend you a gun.”

  I bare my teeth at Marcus, growl.

  “The holidays are meant for family,” he says, sadly.

  I know he’s thinking of his daughter.

  “You miss Caramel?”

  His lower lips trembles. It’s kind of gross to see a grown man cry, and Marcus is blubbering.

  Really, I have no idea why I used to find him appealing.

  “If you’re good, I may let you call your daughter—”

  “Please—”

  “Just don’t bring up Daddy again.”

  After locating him in Lingerie, I dragged my father down the escalator and out of Macy’s. That’s when the alarms went off. He’d stuffed the pockets of his jacket with several Miracle Bras, four animal print thongs (zebra, leopard, tiger, and giraffe), a chartreuse garter belt, red satin chemise, and pink Baby Doll pajamas. He returned his treasures and, thankfully, Security didn’t press charges. But I didn’t discover the teddy (black lace, crotchless, size 4X) until we got back to his place. He wore it underneath his flannel shirt and corduroys, refusing to take it off even when he showered.

  Recalling that nightmare, I let out a long sigh.

  And then I sniff.

  Marcus messed himself again. Adult diapers may in order (my dad uses those), but how will they stay put with just one stump?

  “Want a bath, Marcus?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  He appears to be unconscious.

  Shaking his shoulder has no effect.

  Neither does nibbling his earlobe. It’s so tender, my canines slide right through the flesh.

  Pump or no pump, he won’t make it past Labor Day.

  No Marcus for the holidays.

  I know I should feel sad. I recognize the word, can even mimic the behavior. Rubbing my eyes, I make a sobbing sound and manage to squeeze out a few tears. But I can’t fathom how sad feels.

  Maybe that’s a good thing.

  Is not being sad the same as being happy? If happy is the antithesis of sad, I must be elated. According to the self-help books I’ve read, happiness is a sign of enlightenment. I don’t feel a smidge of sorrow, so I guess I’m pretty evolved. I used to call myself Sad Sadie, but lately my outlook has become cheerful. I attribute this amazing transformation not only to positive thinking, but positive action. I want to reiterate this point: Wishing for change won’t make change happen. You have to be the change and change your actions. Don’t fall into the trap of magical thinking.

  Like Marcus.

  He’s definitely on his last leg—also his last arm. Gangrene has set it. I checked it out online at the Mayo Clinic’s site, and in the state of his condition, surgery is the only alternative, so I hack off his right arm.

  He really thinks I’m going to let him call his daughter?

  Grand Opening

  Work, work, work, work, work, work, work.

  Last night is a blur. I didn’t sleep, and now I’m going to be late.

  I pedal my bike faster, hoping to avoid impending rain. The weather report calls for thunderstorms all weekend. Dark clouds cloak the mountains, and I already felt a sprinkle. Riding my bike may have been a mistake. I consider turning back to get my late husband’s truck. (The thing still starts. I used it recently to haul a load.) But, due to the Grand Opening tomorrow, a refrigerated trailer of meat is parked in back of the supermarket and there’s no room for employee vehicles.

  The rain becomes a deluge as I reach the parking lot.

  I secure my bike on the new rack—really it’s the old rack painted green—and run inside the store. Dripping wet, my hair frizzed out like a clown, I head for the time clock. The cashiers appear more stressed than usual; CRMs hover around the front end, like hawks suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder. Courtesy Clerks scurry past—wiping down Self-Checkout, replacing garbage bags, trying to avoid the wrath of Checkers and CRMs.

  I wave to Wendy, but she doesn’t notice me.

  Strangers from Corporate are holding a meeting at the entrance of the break room, so I have to squeeze past them. For days now, they’ve been huddling around displays, rearranging shelves, giving instructions and confusing everyone. The Store Manager is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Of course, that’s normal.

  After clocking in, I head for Produce. My coworkers are hard at it, heads down as they sort through bananas, avocados, lettuce, mangos. The displays have to be perfect: peppers facing the same way, cucumbers in neat rows, garlic stacked into a pyramid. People will be here all night preparing for tomorrow.

  I spot the Produce Manager, slip around the Salad Bar attempting to avoid him.

  “Sadie!”

  “Yes?”

  I stop walking, turn
toward him. He looks more distraught than usual, and I wonder if he’s drunk.

  “Your number one priority is labels. Crawl around the bins and make sure no stickers have attached themselves to the new floor.”

  “Crawl?”

  “That’s the only way to find them.”

  “But, if no one can see the labels—”

  “No arguments. Your next number one priority is raisins. No holes.”

  “No holes in raisins. Got it.”

  “And your number one, number one priority is—”

  You guessed it: corn. I need to cut, shuck, wrap twenty cases. Everywhere you look in Produce signs say: Colorado Grown. And Olathe corn is the star of the show.

  The war on bugs is serious, and I’ve tracked the numbing of my hands to pesticides. Through research online, I’ve discovered that pesticides are a derivative of nerve gas. It doesn’t kill bugs, it numbs their tiny brains and wrecks their tiny neurotransmitters. These days, when I shuck corn, I wear heavy rubber gloves and a Breaking Bad respirator.

  The freight elevator is stuffed with a pallet of dairy, so I’m forced to take the long way downstairs. I head through Bakery, stopping to sample carrot cake, then continue through Meat and Seafood. I slip through the insulated doorway and hurry down the stairway.

  The basement hallway is more packed than usual, cookies and candy nearly toppling from the shelves. Across from the Store Manager’s office (his door is closed as usual), pallets of soda block the storage cage. Despite the obstacle course, Terri has managed to gain entrance. Her keys dangle from the padlock. She’s inside the cage rearranging cartons. She glances at me as I walk past.

  “Hi Sadie. Ready for tomorrow?”

  “Almost.”

  Anxious to escape her scrutiny, I hurry toward Produce. When I’m certain she can no longer see me, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my apron to make sure I still have the Trinidad Scorpion pepper spray.

  The workroom is crazier than ever—a maze of boxes stacked to the ceiling. A narrow, twisting path leads to my corner, but to reach it I have to risk an avalanche of peaches. At least, back here behind the crates, no one can see me. I’m safe within my fortress of corn, surrounded by a moat of watermelon.

  I find an empty spray bottle marked water, dump in the Scorpion pepper spray, and place the bottle on my salad cart. Using my trusty stepstool, I reach a crate of corn and set it on the counter. Then I set the guillotine over the double bagged trash can and set up an RPC to receive cut ears of corn.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  I feel calm.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  In control.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  I imagine tomorrow. I want to make the day memorable for everyone including customers, not just a select few. I plan to go around the store coating samples with the pepper spray. Nothing obvious. Just my little joke. So when customers bite into a chunk of watermelon, a slice of cake, a mini sandwich from the Deli—their mouths will go up in smoke.

  Thinking about the reactions, I chop faster.

  In high gear, I grab another crate of corn.

  My mind goes blank as I keep chopping.

  Chop, chop, chop.

  Shuck, shuck, shuck.

  Wrap, wrap, wrap.

  I’m a machine.

  In less than an hour, my salad cart is filled with packages of corn.

  Maneuvering my loaded cart through the labyrinth of crates isn’t easy. I nearly knock over a stack of peaches. The Hulk, Liam’s replacement, is working at the crisping sink, and I ram him intentionally.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry.”

  Sorry, I didn’t ram you harder.

  He eyes my cart of corn.

  “You don’t need all that. We took the outside display down. It’s raining like a son of a bitch.”

  “Is it?”

  “I’m not done crisping, but I gotta get this stuff on the wet rack.” He nods at a cart loaded with plastic bins of lettuce, broccoli, cilantro. “Want to take that up?”

  “Can’t,” I lie. “I’m not finished down here.”

  Truthfully, I don’t feel like doing favors for Liam’s replacement.

  “Guess I’ll go up then.” He lays his knife on the stainless steel counter, hangs his rubber apron on a hook and rolls his cart out the door.

  I stay in the work area, so he can’t see me, listen for the freight elevator to come and go. When the coast is clear, I roll my cart of corn out the door and follow his wet tracks.

  I punch the button to summon the elevator.

  A crack of thunder penetrates the basement.

  The lights flicker, come back on.

  The elevator beeps, stuck on the first floor. I punch the button again, but nothing happens. Someone must be up there loading stuff. Or maybe the break in electricity is making it run slow.

  Nothing I can do, but wait.

  Sneaking my phone from my pocket (the cameras are watching), I check the time. I’m due for a break. I glance at the elevator door. The button is still lit, so it’s got power. I give it another punch. Decide to check my messages.

  My father phoned. A text from my sister: Call Dad NOW. A text from Krista.

  The phone makes a weird noise, and a storm warning alert flashes on the screen. Heavy rain. Flash floods. Power outages.

  The elevator beeps again.

  The squeak means it’s moving.

  I stare at the door, watching for light to appear through the small window. Within the patch of glass, I see a face.

  Not the new guy.

  My heart creeps into my throat.

  I swallow.

  My impulse is to run, but my feet refuse to move. They’re rooted to the concrete floor. I stare in disbelief as the elevator’s lips slide open and the grill rises. I peer into the gaping mouth.

  “Hello, Sadie.”

  I lick my lips, sickness rising from my throat.

  “I-I thought you were—”

  “Dead?”

  Justus grins at me, his eyes anything but friendly. He’s wearing one of those black boots the hospital gives you after surgery. His neck is encircled by a brace, his left arm encased in plaster, an ace bandage wrapped around his right.

  My mind whirs, trying to make sense of the impossible. Justus has come back to life. He steps out of the elevator, moves toward me.

  I grab the pepper spray from my cart and spritz him in the face.

  He lunges at me, hands rushing to his burning eyes.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Sadie!”

  The bottle drops from my hands and rolls under the pepper cart.

  A blast of thunder rocks the building.

  The lights flicker and go out.

  The basement hallway is so dark that I can barely see Justus.

  I back away from the elevator, my hands moving along the wall, searching for the doorway into Produce.

  I hear Justus breathing.

  Smell his aftershave, mingled with the spicy scent of Trinidad Scorpion.

  “Remember that day, Sadie?”

  “Wh-what day?”

  “I saw you standing on your balcony.”

  “So?”

  The stink of the trash compactor overpowers his aftershave, so I must be close to Produce.

  Justus grabs my wrist.

  “I know you threw that rock.”

  “What rock?”

  He squeezes my wrist, bruising my skin, the pressure of his fingers threatening to snap the bones. His breath comes in gasps, moist and hot.

  “I can’t prove you threw the rock, so I can’t have you fired, but I promise to make your life a misery.”

  Yanking my arm from his grasp, I stumble through the black void of the hallway until I reach Produce. I push, and the doors swing open. Cold air hits me in the face. I trip over an RPC and slam into a counter, wet and slick from crisping.

  Clunk.

  Clunk, clunk.

  The scrape of Justus’s boot on concrete follo
ws me, heavy and uneven.

  I stand still, afraid to move.

  The sound of every movement is obvious in the black quiet. No hum of electricity emanates from the dark overhead lights, no whir of refrigeration comes from the walk-in cooler, just my own breath—ragged as it escapes my mouth.

  The doors swing open.

  An RPC clatters to the floor.

  Clunk.

  Clunk, clunk.

  The boot makes Justus unstable.

  “Where are you, Sadie?”

  Clunk, clunk.

  “Shit!”

  Boxes crash onto the concrete, followed by the cloying scent of smashed peaches.

  “Sadie, I want to talk to you.”

  Fat chance.

  My fingers run over the counter seeking the new guy’s knife. It skitters out of my reach, clanks into the sink.

  “Sadie?”

  I slip under the counter, and hide behind a trash can.

  Silence.

  Then the scrape of Justus’s boot as he maneuvers through the labyrinth of boxes and crates.

  He must think I’m in my workspace.

  The stainless steel counter runs along the wall, all the way to my workstation, offering me a path that bypasses the labyrinth. If I crawl, I bet I can reach the sinks in back before Justus.

  Scrambling along the concrete on my knees, water soaks my pants. My palm skids on a slimy piece of rotten fruit, but I keep going, circling the bin of watermelons.

  “I’m coming for you, Sadie.”

  I emerge at my workstation.

  Clunk, clunk.

  He’s behind the watermelons.

  Clunk, clunk, clunk.

  I propel myself toward the wall where I keep the knives. A machete in each hand, I turn toward the clunk of his boot.

  “You’re dead meat, Sadie.”

  “Ditto.”

  Machetes raised above my head, I rush toward his voice. I can’t see a damned thing, but his screams tell me I’ve hit the mark. The blades slice easily through flesh. Wet splatters me, but I keep swinging. Justus can howl all he wants, curse me out, call me nasty names—no one hears him down here in the dungeon.