Saturday, February 27, 2010

The Killing Spring, Part 8

The slaughter continued. The death toll mounted...Rachel, Ashton, Coach Radley, who suspended him a game for showing up late for practice - it was unavoidable...I had dirt under my nails!, Ms. Stinson, who refused to give him a grade for his persuasive thesis on why death row inmates should be processed as food to end world hunger, the burger-flipper at Carl’s Jr. who took too long with Gene’s order the other day - probably spit on my burger before he wrapped it, too!

And so many more. All dead.

Gene showed no mercy, gave no quarter.

He spotted one last slug trailing away, making a slow retreat from the carnage littering the ground. The dark spots on it’s glistening back resembled black butterflies.


Gene remembered his promise...

You go on. Make your escape.

After watching the slug retreat to safety, Gene surveyed his work. Countless corpses littered the killing field. The sun now glared down from high in the sky, offering life-giving rays to the plants and flowers in the garden, drying up was left of the morning rain. Soft steam arose from the bricks he knelt on.

Exhausted, Gene stood and tossed the empty salt container away, promising himself to pick it up before Mom and Dad got home later that week. He partially unzipped his overalls, allowing the soft spring breeze to cool the sweat clinging to his chest.

Despite a rough start, it turned out to be a good day. A productive day.

Something brushed his calf. Gene looked down. There was Stinky, staring up at him with a dead mouse in her jaws. She dropped it at his feet, sat proudly before her kill and meowed. For the first time since Mom brought home the stupid cat, Gene reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

“Not bad,” he said, running an hand across her back as she loudly purred. “Maybe we have something in common after all.”

Suddenly, the mouse twitched. Stinky snatched up her prey, scurried a few feet away and proceeded to eat it. Gene winced at the thought of eating his own kills, then spun around to head inside, hand slapped over his mouth and trying not to vomit.

“Then again, maybe not.”

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