Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

I didn’t think about it long. I reached into my pocket, handed over the money. Fat Ernst accepted it almost delicately with one of his swollen, sausagelike fists. He said quietly, “Stick with me, boy. I got a plan. You’ll double your money.” With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the narrow hallway. “You still work here, so get busy.” He waddled off, saying, “Ray, let’s talk. But first, let’s get this stinking sonofabitch out back before he leaks any more blood on the floor.”

I grabbed my trusty mop and surveyed the scene. The bathroom was a mess. The smell attacked my eyes and lungs. I didn’t know where to start. I slapped the mop against the walls of the stall to let the water wash down. I had to scrape the mop back and forth to get the blood to flake off. As I worked, my mind started wandering. I figured I’d never see that fifty bucks again. Fat Ernst had a plan. Plan, my ass.

I flushed the toilet with the toe of my boot and watched as the blood swirled away. At the last second, I saw something white at the bottom of the bowl. I tensed, holding the mop above the toilet like a spear. Then it was gone, swallowed by the surging water. More worms? If it was another worm, then …

I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. But I couldn’t help myself. If there were more worms in the toilet … that meant that all that meat, the meat from the steer that I had pulled out of the pit, the steer that was stuffed with those goddamn worms … that meant that Fat Ernst hadn’t sold the meat for dog food at all. He’d just used it for the restaurant. And I had helped him.

Fresh water began dribbling slowly into the bowl, washing some of the blood away. I caught sight of the pale shape again as the bowl filled with clear water. Little blocks of white, arranged in a half circle. Then I figured it out. It was Heck’s dentures. They must have landed in the toilet when he was puking. I took a deep breath and held it, thanking God it wasn’t the worms.

Still, as much as I hated to think about it, I had to admit that it made a certain kind of sense. It explained Heck getting sick, for one thing. And when had Fat Ernst found the time to take the meat to God knows where for dog food, gotten paid, and then gone and bought more meat from God knows where, all before eight o’clock in the morning? The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. And as I kept thinking about the whole thing, a creeping sense of guilt filled my chest. It felt heavy and hot, like boiling lead. So in the end, I just didn’tthink about it, and concentrated on cleaning up the blood instead. It was easier that way. But I made a promise to myself to check out the rest of the meat in the refrigerator as soon as I got the chance.

I wouldn’t want to eat off the toilet like Fat Ernst had instructed, but it wasn’t too bad. I managed to mop up just about all of the blood in the bathroom, except for a few reddish brown stains on the grouting between the tiles in a few places. I dumped the water in my bucket into the toilet and filled it back up with some hot water in the sink.

I carried it out into the restaurant, hoping that the blood hadn’t had a chance to dry yet. The place was empty except for the trail of blood that led from the bathroom, widened into a smeared pool near the middle of the bar, and kept going until disappearing under the kitchen doors. I checked the windows; Ray’s squad car was gone. I wondered if the bribe had worked. I thrust the mop into the bucket of hot water and then slapped it on the floor. I didn’t bother squeezing the excess water out of the mop because I was going to need all the help I could getting that blood off the floor. The stuff was like glue, sticky and congealed. But eventually, with enough hot water and scraping, I managed to wipe the trail clean all through the restaurant and into the kitchen.

It was time for more water. I dumped the bucket in the sink and was about to twist the hot water handle when I heard something outside. A hissed, guttural exclamation, then a hollow thud. I left the bucket in the sink and crept over to the back door. Another exclamation; I could make out the words this time. “Piss brained bag of dogshit.” The last word came out as a forced pop of air, and then another dull thud. I recognized Fat Ernst’s voice.

I slowly twisted the door handle, trying to think of excuses for opening the door. Nothing came to me, but I pulled it slightly open, just a crack, anyway.

Fat Ernst stood in the rain on the loading dock, chest heaving, fists clenched. Heck’s body lay at his feet, just at the edge of the dock. The dock was a square wooden deck, nearly ten feet across, empty except fora stack of rotting pallets next to the door. Beyond the dock was nothing but oceans of cornfields. Fat Ernst kept swearing through clenched teeth. “You sonofabitch. I should’ve…” He trailed off for a second, then came back with a basic “Fuck!” and gave Heck a good solid kick, right in the rib cage. Heck’s body jerked and trembled from the blow, but other than that, he didn’t move. Fat Ernst stomped on Heck’s right hand for good measure. “Cocksucking son of a whore.” Another kick, to Heck’s head this time, shattering Heck’s nose, a dry, snapping sound that reminded me of stepping on a dead, brittle leaf.

Fat Ernst had his back to me, and as he was drawing his leg back for another kick, he suddenly pivoted in place and stared at me. I felt my insides shrinking up and I knew I was going to be the one who got kicked next. But Fat Ernst didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, thick lips pulled back in a snarl, breathing through clenched teeth. I swallowed, fighting the urge to flee. He twisted back around, spat out “FUCKER!” and kicked Heck in the stomach one more time. Blood erupted out of Heck’s mouth in a wet little cloud.

Then Fat Ernst stepped back, still breathing heavily. He stared down at the sprawled corpse and spoke without looking at me. “You get all that shit cleaned up?”

“Yeah, except for the little bit in the kitchen and out here,” I answered.

Fat Ernst looked at the sky. The clouds, black and pregnant with rain, filled the sky from horizon to horizon. “What time is it?” he asked finally.

“Uh, around three or four, I think,” I said.

“Give me a hand here.” Fat Ernst went down to one knee at the edge of the loading dock and flipped open the lid to the Dumpster. It crashed against the metal side with an abrupt, clanging sound that made me wince. Fat Ernst straightened with some effort and took two steps sideways. He bent over and pulled a key ring out of Heck’s front pocket, then rolled him on his side and plucked a wallet out of one of Heck’s back pockets. Fat Ernst slid the wallet into his own pocket like it belonged to him, then sidled down to Heck’s feet. “Grab his arms there, and help me dump him.”

I knew it was wrong. Knew I should have called somebody. Knew I should have left. But it didn’t matter. I grabbed Heck’s bloody arms anyway. I couldn’t look at his ruined face. We both lifted, and Heck simply folded in half. Fat Ernst shuffled sideways to the edge, and dropped Heck’s legs into the empty Dumpster. It was already starting to fill with rainwater. The rest of Heck’s torso slid in, and his arms slipped easily out of my grasp. He hit the bottom of the Dumpster with all the grace of a canvas sack of rotten potatoes falling off a table.

I wasn’t sure if Fat Ernst was going to leave Heck in there until the garbage guys came next Wednesday, or if he was going to haul the body out later that night, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. Fat Ernst turned his face up to the falling rain for a moment, then wiped his forehead and muttered, “I just can’t understand why it is so goddamn hard for a man to make a decent living on his own these days.”