Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

He left the cellar and his little mascots—a stripper, a prostitute, two college girls (with only one anus between them now) and a nurs — all worthless whores, in other words—and climbed the stairs back up to the kitchen. He set the souvenir from Mary Jane on the chopping block, employing his thumb to slide it from fingers—it stuck like mucus. He plucked up his mallet and brought it down, effectively squashing the wrinkled flesh. From a Tupperware bowl, he produced the remaining cuts of Sue Harper’s buttocks (additional remains recovered 05/11/2002, 05/25/2002 and 06/02/2002), and cranked them through an old fashioned meat-grinder onto a paper plate. A spatula freed the compacted meat from the chopping block, which Sammy scraped on the paper plate. He threw it into the microwave and set it on high, whistling all the while.

The thumping in the attic grew more persistent in anticipation of feeding time. He heard Greg’s Nova in the driveway as the microwave beeped its conclusion. He rushed upstairs to make the delivery. He hadn’t bothered to wash his hands since handling Mom’s underwear (and himself), he realized. Sammy laughed at his carelessness. He unlocked the attic door, chucked the meat inside, and relocked the door from the outside. He heard scraping sounds as the occupant crawled to the newly arrived meal. It would taste like arse, but that was pretty much the point.

Sammy was scrambling back downstairs when Von and Greg walked in. Both parties had their own reasons to distract the other. Sammy came up with the first diversion. “You’re late,” he accused, short of breath.

Von was grateful for the opportunity to stall. “Why you breathing so hard? You just get done jackin’ down?”

“I was upstairs.”

“Upstairs jackin’ down?” Von pounced.

Sammy ignored him. “What’s the matter with you two? You look like Gillian Anderson died and had her remains cremated before you got a crack at her in the morgue.”

Von sighed heavily, feigning a sudden interest in the orange carpet of the den. It was an ugly concoction that looked to have been stitched together from skinned Muppets.

“You two morons didn’t get it, did you? The guy practically gave you his dick on a silver platter and you didn’t take it. Unbelievable.”

“That ain’t what happened, fag face,” Von shouted back. “We did the whole thing the way we talked about, no problem. It was easier than snatching a Latch-Key Kid.”

Sammy didn’t speak for a moment, puzzled. “Okay . . . was Gillian Anderson cremated?”

“Nuh-uh.” Von sighed again. “Look, we got in, got the package, and got the hell out. It was going great.” Von gave his cohort a disgusted look. “Until Mario Andretti over here peeled out on the prize.”

“I said I was sorry!” Greg protested, even though he’d done no such thing.

“Sorry doesn’t take the pieces of Rochester’s dick out of our pockets and make it whole again!”

Sammy didn’t bother to hold in his laughter. “You got a rocket in your pocket, Von?”

“Come on, this ain’t something to joke about. Rochester finds out Greg ruined it, he’ll use that ransom money to have us killed.”

“So don’t tell him. He’s not going to report you to the Better Business Bureau.”

“But what if he insists on seeing it first?”

“Knowing every second counts, that would take balls.”

“He’s still got those,” Greg pointed out.

“What about you, Sammy?” Von asked hopefully. “You got an extra one stashed around here someplace?”

“Oh yeah, sure, just check the candy bowl on the refrigerator. Of course I don’t. I don’t kill guys. What do you think I am, a gay?”

“No, but—” Von paused. “Wait a minute now. Me and Greg’s killed us a few dudes before. You trying to say that makes us rope smokers?”

“Not necessarily—”

“Because Greg’s the one who did all the killing, so he’s the damn queer.”

“Hey, you’re the one who had you a handful of Rochester’s pork sword,” Greg pointed out.

“Shut the hell up, Greg.”

“Yeah, Sammy, he was asking Von to use his teeth and everything!”

“Shut the hell up, Greg!”

“Both of you calm down,” Sammy interjected. “And it’s actually good that you remember these details. You’ll be able to prove beyond a doubt that you’re the ones who did it.”

“Oh right, I’m sure there’ll be all sorts of cranks lining up to take the credit for it.”

“Would you just hand someone three million dollars because they claimed to have your most prized possession? If it was me, I’m not sure I’d take the word of a dick thief at face value . . . especially one who’s a closet homo.”

“Hey, I thought we were getting—” Greg began.

Von cut him off with remarkable subtlety. “Shut the hell up, Greg !”

Sammy might have noticed, but a succession of thumping noises overhead mercifully distracted him and grabbed his attention. “I’ll be right back,” he offered and stormed up the staircase.

When he was out of earshot, Von grabbed a handful of Greg’s shirt. “Do you need a written invitation before you’ll use your brain?”

“What?”

“What were you just about to say? That you thought we were getting five million dollars, not three?”

“Well, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. And how much money do you think Sammy’ll want if he finds out?”

“He don’t deserve any of it . . . you and me are the ones doing all the work!”

“Exactly. But a man with Rochester’s money can pay to create a lot of problems for us. Like . . . hell, I don’t know, ninjas and shit.”

Greg gave this possibility a moment of reverent silence.

“So we might need his help after all. And we need his house to arrange the ransom. We don’t want to be seen anywhere near our homes, just in case.”

“But what could Sammy do against ninjas?”

Von considered this and shrugged. “This is Doctor Butcher we’re talking about, Greg. Those invisible bastards could be pissing throwing stars for the rest of their lives, which probably wouldn’t be very long if they try to get between us and that money.”

Greg looked up the stairwell, listening for Sammy. When he didn’t hear any sign that he was returning, he said, “I’ve got a better idea.”

Von was skeptical, to say the least.

“What if we kill Sammy?” Greg whispered, so quietly Von almost didn’t hear him.

“Say . . . that ain’t half-bad,” Von considered. “We get Sammy, we can cut him off and have a replacement dick. Rochester won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Hey, that didn’t even occur to me,” Greg admitted.

“Then we can have his house at no charge, and we don’t have to share any of the money with him.”

“I didn’t think of that either! That’s even better!”

“Then why the hell did you suggest it in the first place? You must like killing other guys and dominating ‘em. Sammy’s right, you probably are gay.”

“The hell you say! I was thinking with Sammy out of the picture, we’d have Slut Necro Lambda and all those whores downstairs all to ourselves! That’s just as good as five million dollars, you ask me!”

“Slut Necro Lambda,” Von repeated with earnest reverence. “Man, I could certainly use some more of that backdoor action, no doubt about it.”

Greg grinned. “Now who sounds like the damn queer?”

At that moment, they heard more noises overhead and what had to be Sammy’s voice, the words inaudible but apparently forceful.

“Did he move all those twats up to the attic?” Von asked.

“I doubt it. I think I can hear ‘em crying in the basement.”

“Hmm. Maybe we should go find out, don’t you think? He shouldn’t be keeping any secrets from us. We’re supposed to be partners.”