Chuck Palahniuk - Lullaby

He picks up a bottle of beer and points the long neck at me, saying, «Think.» He says, «Think hard.»

The book, Poems and Rhymes from Around the World, will always be out there for people to find. Hiding in plain sight. Just in this one place, he says. No way can it ever be rooted out.

For whatever reason, cheatgrass comes to mind. And zebra mussels. And Oyster.

Nash drinks some beer and sets it down and says, «Think hard.»

I say, the fashion models, the killings. I say, what he's doing is wrong.

And Nash says, «You give up?»

He has to see that having sex with dead women is wrong.

Nash picks up his spoon and says, «The good old Library of Congress. Your tax dollars at work.»

Damn.

He digs the spoon into the bowl of chili. He puts the spoon in his mouth and says, «And don't lecture me about the evils of necrophilia.» He says, «You're about the last person who can give that lecture.» His mouth full of chili, Nash says, «I know who you are.»

He swallows and says, «You're still wanted for questioning.»

He licks the chili smeared around his lips and says, «I saw your wife's death certificate.» He smiles and says, «Signs of postmortem sexual intercourse?»

Nash points at an empty chair, and I sit.

«Don't tell me,» he leans across the table and says. «Don't tell me it wasn't just about the best sex you've ever had.»

And I say, shut up.

«You can't kill me,» Nash says. He crumbles a handful of crackers into his bowl and says, «You and me, we're exactly alike.»

And I say, it was different. She was my wife.

«Your wife or not,» Nash says, «dead means dead. It's still necrophilia.»

Nash jabs his spoon around in the crackers and red and says, «You killing me would be the same as you killing yourself.»

I say, shut up.

«Relax,» he says. «I didn't give nobody a letter about this.» Nash crunches a mouthful of crackers and red. «That would've been stupid,» he says. «I mean, think.» And he shovels in more chili. «All's they'd have to do is read it, and I don't need the competition.»

Imperfect and messy, this is the world I live in. This far from God, these are the people I'm left with. Everybody grabbing for power. Mona and Helen and Nash and Oyster. The only people who know me hate me. We all hate each other. We all fear each other. The whole world is my enemy.

«You and me,» Nash says, «we can't trust nobody.»

Welcome to hell.

If Mona is right, Karl Marx's words coming out of her mouth, then killing Nash would be saving him. Returning him to God. Connecting him to humanity by resolving his sins.

My eyes meet his eyes, and Nash's lips start to move. His breath is nothing but chili.

He's saying the culling song. As hard as a dog barking, he says each word so hard that chili bubbles out around his mouth. Drops of red fly out. He stops and looks into his chest pocket. His hand digs to find his index card. With two fingers, he holds it and starts to read. The card is so smeared he rubs it on the tablecloth and starts to read again.

It sounds heavy and rich. It's the sound of doom.

My eyes relax and the world blurs into unfocused gray. All my muscles go smooth and long. My eyes roll up and my knees start to fold.

This is how it feels to die. To be saved.

But by now, killing is a reflex. It's the way I solve everything.

My knees fold, and I hit the floor in three stages, my ass, my back, my head.

As fast as a belch, a sneeze, a yawn from deep inside me, the culling song whips through my mind. The powder keg of all my unresolved shit, it never fails me.

The gray comes back into focus. Flat on my back on the bar floor, I see the greasy, gray smoke roll along the ceiling. You can hear the guy's face still frying.

Nash, his two fingers let the card drop onto the table. His eyes roll up. His shoulders heave, and his face lands in the bowl of chili. Red flies everywhere. The bulk of his body in his white uniform, it heaves over and Nash hits the floor next to me. His eyes look into my eyes. His face smeared with chili. His ponytail, the little black palm tree on the top of his head, it's come loose and the stringy black hair hangs limp across his cheeks and forehead.

He's saved, but I'm not.

The greasy smoke settling over me, the grill popping and sizzling, I pick up Nash's index card off the floor. I hold it over the candle on the table, adding smoke to the smoke, and I just watch it burn.

A siren goes off, the smoke alarm, so loud I can't hear myself think. As if I ever think. As if I ever could think. The siren fills me. Big Brother. It occupies my mind, the way an army does a city. While I sit and wait for the police to save me. To deliver me to God and reunite me with humanity, the siren wails, drowning out everything. And I'm glad.

This is after the police read me my rights. After they cuff my hands behind my back and drive me to the precinct. This is after the first patrolman arrived at the scene, looked at the dead bodies, and said, «Sweet, suffering Christ.» After the paramedics rolled the dead cook off the grill, took one look at his fried face, and puked in their own cupped hands. This is after the police gave me my one phone call, and I called Helen and said I was sorry, but this was it. I was arrested. And Helen said, «Don't worry. I'll save you.» After they fingerprinted me and took a mug shot. After they confiscated my wallet and keys and watch. They put my clothes, my brown sport coat and blue tie, in a plastic bag tagged with my new criminal number. After the police walked me down a cold, cinder-block hallway, naked into a cold concrete room. After they leave me alone with a beefy, buzz-cut old officer with hands the size of a catcher's mitt. Alone in a room with nothing but a desk, my bag of clothes, and a jar of petroleum jelly.

After I'm alone with this grizzled old ox, he pulls on a latex glove and says, «Please turn to the wall, bend over, and use your hands to spread your ass cheeks.»

And I say, what?

And this big frowning giant wipes two gloved fingers around in the jar of petroleum jelly and says, «Body cavity search.» He says, «Now turn around.»

And I'm counting 1, counting 2, counting 3 …

And I turn around. I bend over. One hand gripping each half of my ass, I pull them apart.

Counting 4, counting 5, counting 6 …

Me and my failed Ethics. The same as Waltraud Wagner and Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy, I'm a serial killer and this is how my punishment starts. Proof of my free will. This is my path to salvation.

And the cop's voice, all rough with the smell of cigarettes, he says, «Standard procedure for all detainees considered dangerous.»

I'm counting 7, counting 8, counting 9 …

And the cop growls, «You're going to feel a slight pressure so just relax.»

And I'm counting 10, counting 11, counting …

And damn.

Damn!

«Relax,» the cop says.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn!

The pain, it's worse than Mona poking me with her red-hot tweezers. It's worse than the rubbing alcohol washing away my blood. I grip the two handfuls of my ass and grit my teeth, the sweat running down my legs. Sweat from my forehead drips off my nose. My breathing stops. The drips fall straight down and splash between my bare feet, my feet planted wide apart.

Something huge and hard twists deeper into me, and the cop's horrible voice says, «Yeah, relax, buddy.»

And I'm counting 12, counting 13 …

The twisting stops. The huge, hard thing backs off, slow, almost all the way. Then it twists in deep again. Slow as the hour hand on a clock, then faster, the cop's greased fingers prod into me, retreat, prod in, retreat.

And close to my ear, the cop's gravel and ashtray old voice says, «Hey, buddy, you got time for a quickie?»