Eric Dimbleby - White Out

The fuckin’ mailman is laughing at me.

He has a mustache, he calls himself Skipper, and he delivers coupons to housewives.

And he’s laughing. At me .

Cocksucker.

I feel around for the knife. He left it behind when he made his move, which is probably just about the stupidest thing he could have done. It’s in all the way through my shoulder. I can feel it poking through the back of my jacket. “You should have gone for the heart or the throat, Skippy. Or even the balls,” I say, as I pull it free. It makes a strange noise that is almost like a pop. I’ve been stabbed before, but never like this. It hurts like a son of a bitch once the knife is free. I can feel pressure releasing from the seeping wound, but I don’t have time to cry over spilled blood. I got me a mailman to kill.

I hand the knife back and forth between my hands. It’s slick with my blood, but that only thrills me more and more. Jesus, baby, let me feel your love all over me. “Gonna kill me a mailman. Momma used to fuck the mailman, so I gots me a lotta issues to work through, ya’ heard?” At this statement, I hear the whoosh of the back door opening, and then shutting again.

He’s running. Coward just dealt me a blow to the eyes, and then stabbed me. Had me against the ropes—one more lethal shot and I’d be a dead man. Even with all them advantages, he gets to runnin’ just like a chicken-shit.

Feeling my way through the kitchen and then down the hallway, I open the door to the mudroom, stepping down carefully. I can remember where the door is, but it doesn’t come out real obvious to me. I feel along the wall (hooks, some hanging jackets, and some annoying fuckin’ windchime) until I finally find the doorknob. I open it on up. I feel the wind blasting through. I zip up my jacket nice and tight.

Some light is starting to force its way through my shut eyes. They are still burnin’ like you wouldn’t believe, but I can sort of see shadows through my eyelids now. It’s bright as hell outside, what with all the sun reflectin’ off the snow.

I go tromping out into the cold. I ain’t been outside in a few days, not since I first came to Marianne’s house. It’s colder than I remember. “Come on, Skippy!” I shout. I’m freezing my ass off, but it’s worth it to chase the pesky shit down.

He mentioned that he had a snowmobile, so if he gets on that thing I’m screwed. Royally screwed. I’ll never catch him on that, so I’ll have to be movin’ on again. A wanderin’ man knows when it’s time to turn tail and run off. If Skipper-oo gets away from me, then I don’t need any more sign than that. Sure, it’ll take a while for him to bring back somebody that gives a shit either way (those types of folks are in short supply I’m bettin’!), but I don’t take chances. The second ya’ stop takin’ chances, that’s when they nab you. Not that I ever been nabbed, but I’m not gonna get into the habit.

An engine rattling. A quiet curse in the distance, “Drat. Drat. Drat.” Who the fuck says drat? Skippy the mailman, that’s who. Come on, Skippy, stay still. Smile for the camera. Edgar’s comin’ for you.

“Drat!” I parrot back at him, laughing loud enough that he can hear me. “Drat! My snowmobile won’t start! Drat!”

He’s sobbing. The sissy doesn’t have enough in him to get off that damn snowmobile, walk up to me, and finish the job. I’m blind and stabbed but he’s still afraid of me. Time to put on the crazy-pants again.

He’s really sobbing now, so loud that it reminds me of the lion from that movie with the chick goin’ down that yellow road, you know… the one with the witch and the scarecrow. Ain’t seen that movie since before my balls dropped, but I remember the way that lion cried. Skipper sounds just like that. Blubberin’ . I think that’s the word. Skippy Zippy is blubberin’.

Skip-To-My-Loo keeps tryin’ to turn the ignition over. I can tell from the sound the engine is making that he’s flooded it. If he had five minutes (he’s lucky if he’s got one minute) then he could wait it out and try again. Instead, he’s panickin’ cause old Edgar is coming.

“Drat!” I scream. I sound like a devil on crystal meth. I wish I could see the mailman’s face.

He turns the ignition again. Skipper is only about ten feet away now.

I tighten up the knife in my hand.

Spluk. Spluk. Spluk.

That’s the sound the kitchen knife makes as I return the favor. He got me once in the shoulder, just above my titty. I gave it back to him in the throat (I think), and then followed that one with one in the chest, and then another that was probably on the back of his skull. The third one felt hard, like I was goin’ up against some steel or some shit like that.

I hear him gurgle and cry out. He says something like, “ Comma comma lama domma .”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about, Skippy.”

He tries again now that he’s dumped off the snowmobile, face first in the snow. He says, “ Breck a leck. Jabby. Jabby .” I’m guessin’ that when you die sometimes you say stupid shit. Sort of like you’re talking some other language. Maybe dead folks have their own language, so when you’re halfway between worlds, you sort of start learning the new one and forgettin’ the old one. Sometimes I come up with silly theories, but try to disprove ’em motherfucker.

“Shut up,” I say, feeling around for his body. My eyesight is startin’ to come back. I manage to get my left lid open. There’s no more snot coming out of my nose, but everything still hurts, still screams, like I just got sprayed by that shit. I still can’t believe I got my shit fucked up by a goddamned mailman. “Now where we gon’ bury your body? Huh, Skippy?”

He groans and then he shuts up for good. Pretty sure that the S.O.B. is dead now.

“Good idea,” I say. “We’ll bury ya’ in the snow. Brilliant. Woulda never thought of that myself.”

Before I get to giving Skippy a final burial, I pull off his jacket. It’s cold out, and a man needs a warm jacket. I put on his hat and his gloves too. I was a dang fool, coming out here like this. Gonna catch a death of cold out here.

Once I got all the good stuff off his body and I have it on myself, I start to drag his dead weight away from the snowmobile. The blinding gusts of wind mask me from any nosy onlookers. Cause that’s all I need, for somebody else to check me out and get into my business. Then I have to kill them. And then somebody else sees me killin’ on that person, and then I have to kill that next one. And so on. And so on. You get to a point where you just get tired of killin’ motherfuckers and you just wanna take a goddamned nap.

“Head first?” I ask. Truth is, I don’t have to really bury him at all. Just get him out of the way. The snow will do the rest. This shit ain’t stoppin’. Not anytime soon.

It’s like Jesus is listenin’, cause the snow picks up just as I’m finding a sweet spot for the mailman. The snow is comin’ down so hard that I swear the whole cocksuckin’ world will be buried by the end of the week.

I crawl back to the snowmobile, leaning up against it. I stare up at the sky as a sudden wooziness overtakes my ass. I’m seeing all kinds of weird shit in my eyes—stars mixed with titties mixed with leprechauns mixed with snow-snow-snow. It’s like I’m on some kind of drugs but then I think again. Maybe it’s just a mix of being tired as hell and losing a lot of blood.

The wound looks pretty bad. Worse than it feels. There’s blood all over the snow.

As much as it pains old Edgar to admit it, I need help. I need to get patched up.

Fuck it all, I need help.

I don’t want to die. Not yet. Too much fun to be havin’.