Regan Wolfrom - Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men

“What if we amputated our legs, one piece at a time? We start with one foot each, and move up from there.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Harsh.”

“I’m not interested in playing doctor with you,” I said. “Just kill me and get it over with, Sparky.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“Sorry, Darrel. I’m on the menu now.”

“I don’t need your permission,” he said. “I can just restrain you and do whatever I think is right.”

“That’s true. A maniac’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. But let’s do one thing before you start slicing and dicing.”

“What?”

“Fuck me, Darrel.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. I haven’t had sex in three months. Even if I make it out of here my prospects are going to nose dive what with one leg being shorter than the other.”

“This is a trick.”

“Tape me up for it if you want,” I said. “Maybe I’m into that… it doesn’t matter. Just fuck me, alright?”

He nodded. He walked over to grab the roll of duct tape, moving a little slower with the change in blood flow.

It was my only chance.

I ran over to the kitchen and grabbed the pan. I swung it at his head.

He swerved out of the way and grabbed my arm.

He punched me in the neck.

For a moment I couldn’t breathe.

He had my wrists taped in front of me before I could even think of fighting back.

He dragged me over to the bunk.

“Three months,” he said. “That’s not that long.”

“You’ve won,” I said. “Please don’t.”

“You started this.”

I heard the door of the cabin open, followed by the flutter of wings.

Edgar let out a shrill cry.

And then I heard Darrel scream. For almost a minute. Until he stopped.

Edgar perched on the railing of the bunk and stared at me.

I looked over to Darrel and saw where the raven had pecked, into Darrel’s eye socket and deeper still.

I think Edgar was smiling at me.

After I’d gotten out of the tape, I climbed up to the cockpit. Edgar circled around me just like before.

I looked out to the East with the binoculars. There was still nothing in sight.

I turned and looked to the West.

And I saw a ship.

Adrift.

I’d inflated the lifeboat and grabbed the paddle and the first aid kit. With my lifevest on and a prayer said to whoever’s out there, I climbed in and set off towards the ghost ship.

From what I could see from the deck of the ketch, it was a small Japanese fishing boat, probably about as small as you’d expect to see in the ocean.

I didn’t know why I was going there.

It was possible that there was water and food still on board, or even a radio.

I didn’t know for sure.

But somehow I knew I’d be alright.

I knew because Edgar was with me, following my little orange raft on its trip across the water.

I knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d brought me back to Haida Gwaii, maybe to return the raven-headed dagger, maybe to see Paul again. Or maybe just to be his new Poesy.

I’ll go back to Haida Gwaii and Hotspring Island, as soon as I‘m able.

I think I owe him that.

HOW CANyou tell who’s vegan at a dinner party?

Don’t worry… they’ll be sure to let you know.

That’s not my joke… I read it on the Internet somewhere. It’s funny because it’s true, just like it’s funny that vegans get so damned angry at people who make fun of them.

I mean… come on, it’s just a joke.

But I’m not all about hating on vegans. I like vegans… they’re fucking delicious.

That last one’s not a joke.

My name is Marie-Claire Grimson. I’m a cannibal.

I also like paintball and modern art.

Larissa Huong had impeccable taste. Fancy cruelty-free clothes, high-end animal-free furniture, a hybrid convertible that makes very little sense with Beantown winters… those things were all warning signs that I just didn’t bother noticing. I didn’t even know that PayPal cheques could bounce.

Her apartment manager had let me in, no problem; even with my hair dyed pink I still managed to play the delicate and grieving card, telling him that Larissa is my best friend… or was… and cue the tears… Mom always tells me it’s never the hair and makeup, that it’s just about the boobs… yeah… but she’s been a good mother to me in other ways.

The manager had left me alone in there since the Patriots were playing, locking the door up behind me. I grabbed everything I could that would fit in my purse, mostly jewelry and what I’m hoping is acid… I knew I’d only get away with taking one outfit, so I chose the one with the tags that seemed the most Italian… I can’t remember if Italy’s just for shoes.

It doesn’t really matter… I won’t get nearly enough for it on Craigslist. Tasty little Larissa owes me two hundred bucks.

As I was just about to go, I heard a voice that sounded familiar, echoing up the hallway from the doorway of apartment 1A.

“She’s in there right now,” the woman said. “She’s robbing that dead girl blind.”

“Look,” I heard the manager say, “I don’t want to get involved in this. You’re telling me that girl with the pink hair is a murderer? You gotta be high on something, lady.”

He sounded different when he spoke to her, like he felt she wasn’t even worth talking to.

I had a feeling I knew who it was.

Some feet started stomping down the hall towards me. Then I heard another set in pursuit. I wouldn’t have time to duck out before they reached me.

And if it really was Eleanor, I’d be better off confronting her with a witness present.

There was banging on the door, and some screaming, and after a few seconds more I heard the jangling of a keyring. The door opened to a very annoyed apartment manager and a very puffy-looking Eleanor. Her skin was bright red and her dreadlocked hair was so dirty and matted that it barely looked blond anymore.

She’d gone over to the dark side.

“You look different, Eleanor,” I said, remembering how put-together she’d once been, not that she’d ever looked that good. “Your hair…”

“I look like someone who’s happy now,” she said. “And if you’d had your way, I’d be halfway through your lower intestine.”

“You girls are friggin’ loons,” the manager said. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

“You aren’t going to search her?” Eleanor asked.

The manager shook his head and started back towards his apartment.

“So you’ve moved up to real life stalking,” I said. “Threatening emails weren’t doing it for you?”

“You’re a serial killer,” she said. “I’m not going to stop until I see you strapped to a gurney with a needle in your arm.”

“Then you’d better get me a gig in Texas or something. Someplace with deep-fried green beans and cowboy hats.”

“I’m sure I can rent my own gurney.”

I had to roll my eyes at that. “Listen… I really have to go. We just got a new PVR and I haven’t had a chance to set it up to tape Jon Stewart.”