Eric Dimbleby - White Out

He fancies himself a tough guy. Isn’t that special?

“Go away before this gets ugly,” I say.

Skipper takes a step forward, getting in my face. “Where is it you come from? Marianne never mentioned having a boyfriend. I would know. I come to this house every day, so I would know if she had a boyfriend.” The tone in Skipper’s voice makes it sound like he may be a bit on the jealous side, like he wants to be pokin’ on Marianne’s tuna can. He’s a suspicious little shit, but he also hates my guts for gettin’ so close to Marianne.

“Back up, little fella,” I say. He’s not really little. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than yours truly. That don’t mean I can’t talk to him like a little man. A fella with a moustache doesn’t stand a chance against a wanderin’ man, unless he is a wanderin’ man himself. Most wanderin’ men don’t wear moustaches anyway. Cause people are less likely to pick you up if you’re not clean shaven.

“Marianne?” Skipper calls out now, pushing past me into the mud room. “You in there, Marianne?” I gotta admit, I’m pretty shocked at how bold this shit-for-brains is.

I grab him by the color of his dark blue parka, pushin’ him up against the wall. “I told you to get the fuck out of my house.”

“It isn’t your house. It’s Marianne’s.”

“It used to be Marianne’s, but now it belongs to me. Ya’ hear?”

“You’re a liar,” he says, bearing his teeth at me. He looks like he wants to take a swing at me. I sort of hope he does, cause I’ve been bored as all hell since Marianne got her head lopped off. I’ve been itchin’ for something to break up the day. “Where is she?” he asks again, way more insistent.

The little fucker is asking, so I’m much obliged.

“Follow me,” I say, walking through the door, waving for him to join me. He rights himself, pulling on his clothes as I take my hands off him. He readjusts himself, hopin’ he can get back some of his dignity. When he sees what I’m about to show him, he’ll know that he’s done messed with the wrong motherfucker. “I’ll show you her. You’ll love this, Skippy.”

He follows behind me and I can tell he’s hesitatin’, real slow like.

I can almost hear his expression. I’ve seen this kind of expression before. He isn’t believin’ this shit, not at all. In all his life, he ain’t never thought he’d see something like this. Marianne—all strewn about like confetti after a Fourth of July parade. What’s left of her is only the bits and pieces that the kitty cat’s ain’t lapped up. Her sweater is still there, but the cats have been pawing at it, untangling the threads. They’re usin’ her body like a scratchin’ board when we come into the kitchen.

I can hear him gasp. I can hear him thinking terrible thoughts about me. I can hear his heart deflating because he definitely had a crush on this old broad. I can hear him falling to pieces. I can hear him wondering to himself how he can go on. I can hear him pulling something out of his jacket, almost instinctively. I can hear him fidgeting with the device—probably some pepper spray. Mailmen always carry pepper spray, so they can defend themselves from wild dogs when they’re out on their route.

In response, I turn and I bark at him. I sound just like a German Shepherd, mostly cause I used to have one when I was little, and I learned from listenin’ to it all the time. I used to get it riled up by whippin’ on it with my uncle’s belt, and it would snap at me like it was fixin’ to destroy little Edgar. That dog took hell from me, but he gave it right back. Nearly took off my finger one time, just about ripped me in half if the neighbor hadn’t put him down with a shotgun shell to the back of the scalp.

Skipper jumps (or should I say: skips? Zing. ) right out of his shaky skin, pushing himself back against the kitchen cabinets as if he’s falling to pieces right in front of me. He’s holding up the pepper spray (in a teenie weenie pink can) at me, mumbling something about how I better leave him alone.

“You never had your chance, did you?” I ask him. I hunch down low so that I look like some sort of ghoulie motherfucker. If you get your shoulders hunched just right and get that spacey look in your eyes, you can make just about anybody shit their pants. I’ve seen plenty of ankle-splatter in my days, just by putting on a creep show for them. Wish you could see the face that Skipper is making at me, lookin’ like he’s staring down the thing from his closet from back when he was a little boy, way before he wore that stupid fuckin’ mustache he’s got now.

“Get away,” he says, his voice so shaky it could carve a Thanksgivin’ turkey.

“Never had your chance to fuck her, did ya’? I bet she was real good, too. Or maybe I know firsthand?” I ask him. Of course, I wouldn’t have touched The Sweater Queen with a ten-foot pole, no matter how hard she tried, or how drunk I got. But he don’t know that. He don’t know much other than what he sees in Marianne’s kitchen, that bein’ her body all slathered all over the place like she got eaten by wolves. “Maybe I know. Maybe I know what those sweet titties smelled like. Maybe I even sniffed her bush. You want the details, Skipper-oo? You wanna know what you missed out on?”

I can smell his piss. He’s wettin’ himself. I can’t help but laugh at this, and I throw my back and shoulders into the laugh as well, writhin’ around like a goddamned demon. Gonna make him piss himself all the way to his grave. Gonna make him—

FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

“You cocksucker!” I shout, grabbing at my eyeballs, trying to dig into them with my fingernails, wishing I could get the hot pain out of them. I didn’t think the shithead would actually use the mace. He looked like the type that was all threats, no follow-up. How wrong I was about Skipper-oo and his pretty mustache. Maybe he had a little ball sack after all. When you get them pissin’ their pants, then you usually have them by the short and curlies. “I’m gonna kill you, cocksucker!”

I can’t see him, what with Satan rubbing his fiery genitals into my eyes, but I can sure hear him. He moves across the kitchen. If he escapes, then my whole settlin’ in and settlin’ up plan might get botched. “Stay still,” I warn, rubbing at my eyes. I can feel drool coming from the pockets of my lips, pooling on my chin and chest. Long snots dangle from my nose, ropy and thick. I wipe all of this mess away, wondering how crazy I must look. Sure, I was puttin’ on the crazy-pants act for the mailman, but now, it’s not an act. “Don’t move an inch, mailman. Skipper. Skippy. Skipper-oo .”

I lunge in the direction that I last hear him, grabbing on to the countertop instead. I hear a small clatter from my left and when I swing my arms out in that direction, I am greeted by one of Marianne’s cats. It scratches at me. I take a swing at it, boxing style, but I miss. It clips me with its claw again and I let loose a girly scream. “Fuckin’ cats. I’ll kill every last one of you fuckers once I can see again.”

Another noise, this one from right behind me. I spin, ready to beat the shit out of the mailman. That bastard sprayed me with a pink can of pepper spray. Ain’t nothin’ like feeling like a dainty little girl. I’m gonna kill this fucker, just like I shoulda the second he came into Marianne’s house. ( myhousemyhousemyhouse! )

“I hear ya’,” I threaten, trying to smirk.

That’s when I feel it sink into me.

Motherfucker stabs me. Stabs me deep, too.

The howl that comes out my mouth is—well, it’s like nothin’ you ever heard before. I guarantee that shit. It’s like I was savin’ up my best scream for years and years, bottling it all up inside. And here it comes, a’roarin’ and a’rippin’ through the air. And you know what the real kicker is?