Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

I’d been warned. Still, I was shocked when I entered the room.

Four women, sat at a small square table, seemingly playing cards. A messy pile of plastic chips---red, white, and blue---accented the table top of pale cork. Dull eyes within bloated faces stared at the pale yellow walls. With a permanent grimace, each held a hand of five cards as if what they held were a source of great pain. Their white nurse’s uniforms were splattered with vomit and blood, but what drew my attention was how taut they were. The buttons were nearly popping from bloated bellies, bloated from the gas of bacteria feasting on rotting internal organs.

I pulled out the aftershave-soaked handkerchief from my jacket and covered my nose. Despite breathing in short shallow breaths, I couldn’t avoid tasting the stench of bodies left in a small interior room for days in August.

I stepped forward, curious as to the cards the sicko had put in the hands of the four victims. I scribbled them down on my pad. The one facing the door held a 4 of clubs, a 5 of clubs, a 9 of spades, a 9 of clubs, and a Q of spades. The one on her left held a 9 of diamonds, a 6 of hearts, a Q of hearts, a 2 of hearts, and an 8 of hearts. The next one held a 6 of spades, a 7 of spades, a 2 of spades, a 3 of spades, and a joker. The last one held a 4 of diamonds, a 5 of hearts, a 5 of diamonds, an A of diamonds, and a K of diamonds. The cards didn’t seem random. What was the killer telling me?

Giving up for now, I went into the small kitchen. Sam was taking samples from an empty box of pizza on the table. The pizza from Antony’s was advertised as unforgettable. Sam turned to face me, “Indications of poison. The pizza, probably.”

Now what? I slap my forehead, but no ideas come forth. Maybe, if I start off with the murder instead of the aftermath, the story might flow better.

I open the door and three pairs of frightened eyes stare at me and four muffled voices plead. The nearest one has her back to me, and although the room is cool, the hair on the back of her head is matted with sweat.

She jerks her head forward as I touch it with a finger. Women are so... I grab a handful of bleached hair, the roots a ratty brown, and slowly twist her head around. Her eyes are squeezed shut. What’s the matter with her? She shudders when I whisper heavily into her ear, “You should learn to relaaax. Take a deeeep breath... Good. Now, didn’t that help?”

Stepping away from her, I speak to all, “I’m thinking about killing myself, but I don’t want to die alone. I’m considering letting at least one of you go to let the world know how it really happened, you know, but I can’t decide who.”

Putting my hands behind my back, I circle the table. Eyes wide open follow me. Choosing the redhead, I pull down her gag and ask, “What do you suggest?” She spits, but her mouth is so dry that all I feel is moist air. It stinks. Is that what they call the smell of fear?

Taking a hankie out of my pocket, I stuff it into her mouth and slam my fist into her gut. The hankie pops halfway out. Gingerly taking it with thumb and finger, I put it back into my pocket (a trophy). I listen to her panting for a while before pulling the gag up from around her neck and over her mouth.

I see a tear streaking down the cheek of the chubby brunette next to her. I feel guilty. I know making people cry is bad.

I stand in front of Chubby, “Promise to be nice?”

She nods. I take down her gag. She takes a deep gulp of air, “Please, please, let us go. We won’t tell anybody.”

I slap her hard across her mouth for I’ve heard that lie before.

She murmurs in defeat, “Why, why, are you doing this?”

“People collect butterflies, don’t they? You are my butterflies. You will be the canvas on which I will paint the dark soul of unfettered testosterone.”

The door bell rings. My hand stifles a cry for help. I jam my hankie into her mouth. Striding to the door, I peep through the hole. It’s the pizza delivery dude. Through the intercom, I speak, “Leave it on the doorstep. The dough is in the mailbox. Keep the change.”

Thanking me, he leaves.

Have you ever collected butterflies? The fun is in the collecting, isn’t it? For nobody truly understands the art of presentation; I know the owners of the house won’t appreciate what I will create in their dining room. I will leave it untitled.

But, maybe, I can sell the story.