Matt Hults - Anything Can Be Dangerous

He stood in line, pretending to count his pocket change as he waited to order.

Jeff bought three cheese burgers, fries, an apple pie, and a Coke.

Roy went for a fish sandwich and a fountain drink.

Jimmy got a soda and a bowl of chili.

They grabbed a booth at the back corner of the main dining room as a trio of teens vacated their seats to leave. Jimmy pulled the plastic top off the paper bowl of chili as Jeff and Roy sat down on the opposite side of the table.

“I hear they got a new titty bar open’n up over by the air base,” Roy said, sipping his drink. “Seeing as you don’t got no current attachments, Jim, maybe you’d like to check it out sometime?”

Jimmy had steeled himself to keep cool, to just act normal so the others wouldn’t get suspicious, but he suddenly found himself speechless as his thoughts focused on how to execute the plan.

“Damnit, Roy,” Jeff answered for him. “Can’t you see the kid’s just had his heart ripped in two?”

Roy shrugged as he bit into his sandwich. “Just thought seeing some skin might cheer him up, is all.”

Jeff’s bushy mustache twitched under his nose. “You ever think about anything else?”

Roy paused his chewing for a moment then shook his head ‘no’.

Jimmy reached into his pocket as the two men exchanged looks, splitting the bag’s seal with his hand. He had to force a neutral expression as his living fingers found the dead one. Then, with the finger cupped in his hand, he picked up the packet of Saltines that had come with his order and tore open the plastic. “Check out the peach by the register,” he said, crumbling the crackers. “I’d like to see her in one of them places.”

The men looked over their shoulders, and he dropped the finger into the chili with the crackers, stirring it under with his spoon. Initially he’d planned to take a few bites before getting to business—to make the lunch seem more authentic—but the thought of swallowing a single drop of the food after the finger had been mixed in with it made his stomach flop over in protest.

Get a grip, Jim. Think dollar signs.

He churned the chili, feeling the finger’s weight against the plastic utensil. Then, with a furtive glance to make sure Jeff and Roy had their attention on their own meals, he scooped the finger into his mouth.

It slid off the spoon, onto his tongue, taking up far more space than he liked.

Don’t think about it, dumb-ass, just do it! he thought.

And he did.

He bit down, feeling the rubbery texture of the finger’s skin, the hardness of bone. The heat from the chili had yet to penetrate the cold from the ice and as his teeth came together, a frigid liquid spurted against the inside of his cheek.

His empty stomach seemed to fill with a putrid green liquid in reaction to the sensation in his mouth and his body instinctively fought to expel the nauseating object. But just as he prepared to spew it onto the tabletop, Jeff and Roy turned away, facing the front of the store to look at the menu.

They won’t see it! his brain raged. They have to see me spit it out!

So he held it in his mouth, feeling its horrid presence.

And it moved.

He’d raised his hand, about to slam it down on the table to regain the men’s attention, when he distinctly felt the finger uncurl, its nail scraping the side of one molar.

Every nerve in his body seemed to short circuit from the shock, and he stiffened in his seat, unable to move. Then the finger did it again, squirming like a half-dead worm trapped in a storm puddle, just as someone said, “Hey there, Jimbo!”

Slapping him on the back—

Gulp!

—causing him to swallow!

He felt the finger slide down his throat like a thick bite of licorice, pressing hard against his insides.

Oh, shit!

He clutched the table with both hands, tensing his neck muscles in a last ditch effort to stop the dead man’s digit from reaching his stomach. But then he felt one last squeeze deep inside his chest and knew it was already too late.

“Jimbo,” he heard Tom, the foreman, say from behind. “You alright, man? Damn, I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”

The others set their food aside when Jimmy failed to respond, Jeff leaning in close, asking him what was wrong. Tom offered him a hand, but he pushed it away.

“Outta my way, you back-slapping asshole!” he cried.

Without another word, he leapt from his seat and raced for the bathroom.

He elbowed his way through a group of teenage girls blocking the hall that accessed the restrooms, then shouldered the door open, only to slam it shut again and slap the lock into place. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he did, and for a heart-stopping moment thought he’d come face-to-face with an albino psychopath.

Without wasting another second, he turned away from the mirror and crammed his own finger down his throat in an effort to puke. He reached as far back as he could, painfully stabbing tender flesh and poking his tonsils.

He gagged a few times, but nothing came up.

“Dammit,” he shrieked. “This can’t be happening!”

He slammed his fists on the sink top and punched a hole in the plastic cover of the paper towel dispenser. He tried hitting himself in the stomach a few times, but when that didn’t work to bring up the finger, he took his frustration out on the waste basket in a flurry of kicks.

Huffing out of exertion and fear, he leaned against the sink and paused to collect himself.

“Think, dipshit! Think!”

His breathing had just begun to ease when the door to one of the two toilet stalls clicked in its frame and slowly swung open. Jimmy looked up. A moment later, a balding middle-aged man wearing a business suit and wire-frame glasses stepped out, clutching his unzipped pants at the waist. Without making eye contact, he edged toward the exit like an overweight tourist who’d fallen into the lion pit at the zoo.

Jimmy gaped at him. “Can’t you see I’m having a moment here, pal?”

“I don’t want any trouble, Mister,” the man quickly replied.

A dull silver cell phone poked out of the breast pocket of his shirt.

Jimmy saw it and lunged at him.

The stunned patron blubbered out a string of half-coherent pleas for release as Jimmy seized him by the lapels of his jacket and plucked the phone from his pocket. His pudgy hands flew up to ward off Jimmy’s attack, leaving his pants and underwear to collapse at his feet.

“Please, Mister, don’t hurt me!”

But even as he said it, Jimmy unlocked the bathroom, shoved the phone-owner into the hall, and yanked the door shut again before his bare ass hit the floor.

Jimmy flipped the phone open and dialed Stuart’s number.

“Hello?”

“Stu, it’s me—”

“Jesus, Jim,” Stuart said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning. Listen, don’t—”

“I swallowed it, man!”

“What?”

“The finger! The fucking thing’s in my guts!”

Stuart’s reply came out as one word. “Wathefugitshididyoudothatfor?”

“I was hungry!” Jimmy bellowed back at him. “What do you think?”

“Jesus, this figures!” Stu moaned.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means Sheriff Pickett came by this morning and told Harrington not to ship the corpse over to HCMC for cooking, that’s what! Some homicide detective called about him last night, and he’s on his way here right now to ID the body. If he’s right, our illegal amigo might actually be a Navajo serial killer!”

“I don’t give a damn!” Jimmy replied. “I need you to pump my stomach!”

“I don’t know how to do that!”