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  In the days that followed, I had ventured out of the closet only to throw out my soiled clothes and ‘camp toilet.’ I decided, as I had better mobility, to peel off my nasty clothes, opting to instead wear one of dad’s fleeces and a pair of jeans that I suspected was Jimmy’s that I had found hanging beneath one of Jim’s old jackets.

  Well, I placed them outside. I wasn’t stupid enough to throw bags of shit around. I opened the door and began making piles of my refuse in the corner, arm’s reach outside the closet door. It was like those shows about hoarders mom liked to watch on TV. Those plastic shopping bags and empty Poland Spring bottles came in handy. I rarely left the closet, making it almost into the living room only once when I thought I heard a soft meow at the door. Instead of finding one of the cats, I noticed that the kitchen was digested sometime last week. There was a gaping maw where the room used to be.

  I crawled back inside. Mom apparently had insisted staying with the Begonias. I’m sure she went before the kitchen did.

  Dad will never know. I started hearing the pained whisperings again. I haven’t heard my name again— yet— but I have 12 packets of Saltines, 9 cans of Sardines in water, about a dozen bottles of Poland Spring and two cans of Spaghetti-O’s left. I ate the dog biscuits before I had the spaghetti-Os. I hate mushy pasta.

  I almost wish that I could just go out and disappear the way Jimmy did. Too bad I won’t ever finish making our game. How long before the concrete is gone, I wonder?

  Maybe I’ll give it indigestion.

  Keepsakes

  The heavy oak door shut with a grunt. Dry air tickled his nose, producing a quick succession of sneezes. There was the familiar scent of dry-rot and that syrupy sweet stagnant smell that always told him he was home. It reminded him of the back-room at his Grandma’s when he was growing up. She used to do crafts and often dried her own flowers and such. One summer, when he stayed with her for a few short weeks, a squirrel had nibbled through the screen in that back room, had feasted on some dried roots or berries or something—and died. Squirrels and homespun potpourri didn’t mix apparently. It had fallen behind the large wooden filing chest with what had to be nearly a hundred drawers that Grandma used to store her herbs and beads and things. The flies found the beast before she did.

  Sneezing again, he’d make this a quick visit. He was tired, he desperately needed to shower off the sour sweat and latex stink, and his face itched beneath a new growth of stubble. Scratching his square jaw, he hammered his way down the basement stairs into his Sanctum Sanctorum, his personal museum. His new acquisition would soon nestle snugly beneath a grand bell jar, on a circular bed of mahogany. The more potent objects—those that were either more difficult to get, posed some problem, or possessed some other peculiarities—necessitated the added precaution of the bell jar, a glass dome of some kind, or a Lucite box, which his accountant preferred over the costlier glass or, heaven forbid, crystal.

  The stodgy old accountant couldn’t understand that the more natural materials of glass or crystal served to better contain the objects than Lucite. You could charge crystal and ward it. You couldn’t charge Lucite. What the fuck was Lucite anyway? Energy leaked out of it like water out of that old bucket he used to use to catch fiddler crabs when he was a kid. There had been enough holes in that bucket to let out the water and keep hold of the crabs. His mother had freaked when he had come home with no less than 32 little crabs on one Midsummer Day. He had woken up the next morning, barely able to walk from the sting in his backside, only to find his bucket had been thrown by the garbage cans. The flies were buzzing once again. But, the smell wasn’t like with the squirrel; 32 dead and dying fiddler crabs smelled far far worse.

  The glass and the crystal and even the Lucite would make sure not a single fly ever buzzed around his museum.

  His recent acquisition came after completing the latest investigation. He had only just arrived home. The residents had been dutifully researched. The history of the site was carefully investigated. The instances of what he would consider ‘phenomena’ had been clearly catalogued—and then, when he positively felt he was wetting himself in anticipation, the investigation came. It took almost a full 2 months to get his mitts on the ‘client.’ He hated using that term, it always made him think of accountants and hookers.

  Case. It was a case, after all—he had records, documents, et cetera and so forth. He had selected the day carefully—the moon had waned and it would be the first night of the New Moon. It couldn’t be better. Now—if it rained—that might also go in his favor, as long as there was no thunder. Thunder took a complete shit all over the audio.

  He had been sure to shave—everything but his curly black hair, which was pulled severely back and tucked under a bandanna of the same color. He had issues with chicks shaving their shit, but in a situation like this, like it or not—he had to defoliate. After all this work, there was just no sense in fucking it all up with DNA, just because he couldn’t shave his junk?

  Standing in front of his mirrored closet that morning, he thought the brown towel made his summer tan look insipid to say the least. Whipping the towel into the laundry bin, he took a last inspection to make sure there weren’t any bits he had forgotten to shave or nair. He fucking hated nair, especially on his boys—but the last time he made the mistake of using a Gillette down there—more than 10 years ago—he thought he had just turned his 19-year-old self into a castratti. Smooth as a gnome’s nipple, he kissed his mirror’s lips, and threw open the doors.

  His closet really housed only one color, so wearing black wasn’t unusual. But, tonight’s get-up was special—covert. He would leave the jeans and geek-inspired tees at home. Last month, he had to resist getting himself another one of those close-knit thermals worn by his favorite, cable-TV blood spatter expert, but only because it didn’t come in black. Charcoal gray, the woman said, was like black. It really didn’t matter that the fucking thing was so skintight that his nipples stood at attention if he passed the ice cream aisle in Waldbaum’s.

  But whenever he found himself decked out in investigation gear, if he had the urge for a caffeine fix beforehand—like he had before this case— people always reacted the same way that that young thing in the Daisy Dukes did that very afternoon. Standing there, waiting for his triple espresso, she oozed in close, tossing her auburn curls, twittering “Is there a convention? Where are you going, the Garibaldi?” Redheads were his thing, so he smiled. But, as his eyes focused and as she leaned over the counter—making sure he had a full view of her rock hard cleavage—he bit his lip feeling the glimmering throb in his crotch fizzle. Cleavage should not be rock hard, and flat-assed chicks should NOT wear Daisy Dukes. He shook his head simply as he snatched up his espresso. “Top Secret,” he said, holding his finger to his lips. Her red was bottled anyhow. Nothing deflated his balloon more than seeing drapes that didn’t match the curtains. Hair dressers should be shot—alongside Big Foot hunters, everyone working for Monsanto, and über-conservative Republican female Presidential candidates. He wasn’t a misogynist—he just didn’t like women to distort themselves like this girl and those GOP skags did.

  “No fair— I watch all you guys the ‘Dude, run’ dudes, and that gay kid from PA, that psi-vamp lesbo and that guy with the museum that reminds me of Santa but with a way shorter beard—but, you don’t look familiar—whoya with?”

  This girl clearly did not need the double shot caramel macchiato extra caramel 4 sugars that she had ordered. She chattered in one long breath, still leaning over in a way that made his back ache. The act of holding up those bags of silicone on those almost 4 inch Lady Gaga-wannabe heels had to wreak havoc on her spinal column.

  “I’m not with a group,” he said, keeping his voice low. Looking at his watch, he nodded a good day as she tittered her name and tried telling his back to “Friend Me.”

  It shouldn’t rankle him that people thought he was with a group. It wasn’t that he wanted to be in a group—all those people honing in on his show? His
style was clearly—different. He doubted very much that any group existed that was into the same scene. But, there was just one thing that those damned groups had that his quasi-paramilitary gear was missing—a logo. He had thought of one, but it was too obvious—and when he tried getting the sketch made into an embroidered patch at that place that used to be in the downstairs wing of the Mall, near Sears, the short haired dyke told him to “Fuck off.” It was the one time he had lost his cool with a woman, in public. But, since she was a rug-muncher, he didn’t think of her as a woman—not in the strictest of senses. And, as he yelled—his money was as good as anyone else’s, so why wouldn’t she embroider the damned logo? The security guards and her manager were going to take his side… until they saw what the logo was to be—a severed hand holding a woman’s severed breast. He never did get his logo and he wasn’t about to do needlepoint himself. So, his gear was logo-free and as black as Agent Cooper’s coffee on a moonless night in Twin Peaks.

  He had decided to go light on the gear, use the Night-Vision goggles instead of the camera and flashlight, and bring only the precision tools, the audio recorder, extra batteries, and his trusty never-leave-home-without-it, roll of black duct tape—just in case. He didn’t like the light reflection on the silver.

  Via arrangement, the husband was away until well after July 4th, which was the following day. There was either some wedding, or reunion, or funeral—or all three. Whatever it was—the dude was away at least until then, which is what his secretary had noted during a routine information gathering phone call. The local guidos shooting off bottle rockets were far worse than thunder for the audio—but, since it wasn’t the 4th yet, maybe they’d simmer down before long. He really wanted to get tonight on tape, or digital, because you never knew what you’d get.

  The sun had just gone down by the time he found himself parked across the street, strapping on his gear like Batman, complete with utility belt. In it he kept his basics—batteries, multi-tool, tri-field meter—just in case—and lip balm. But he also had a few additions—antibacterial wipes, extra gloves, a mini black-light, a small spray bottle of bleach –in case the resident didn’t own a bottle—and condoms. He was a safety kinda guy, after all, and protection was very important to him. He was very pleased with the black hunter’s vest he had gotten as a Christmas gift from the last Redhead he had shagged. It had hung in her foyer closet, probably her husband’s. It was roomy—like her—and had pockets for everything, but the goggles. He even managed to shove a wound up contractor bag into a huge hidden inside pocket in the back, made for some such thing. Since he wasn’t a hunter, he had no idea what use hunters made of such a fucking enormous pocket—but it was perfect for taking home debris and whatever else needed clean up. It was big enough for a damned bath towel, but putting the goggles in there was too uncomfortable. He didn’t like walking around with a massive bulge sticking out his back like some bizarre hunchback. So he held the goggles instead of donning them, for the moment, since he didn’t fancy being blinded by the street lights and the occasional flash of the pre-4th fireworks.

  The case was home, of course, and freshly showered by the time he started the investigation. She didn’t even hear him slip in through the laundry room door at the back of the house. He was that good. The circuit breaker was there next to the dryer. That was what his recon and research was all about, after all. He had been thorough about this location. Not wanting another cock-up like out in Wayne in March. The one time he went to fucking New Jersey for an investigation, the chick’s fucking mother decided to stay over while hubby was away. Hell—a 34-year-old woman calls her mommy to stay over when she was alone? The old scag heard him in the side-yard trying to jimmy the basement window open. It could have been real bad. He was able to jump six fences and hide, curled up, under a neighbor’s outdoor Tiki-bar, until the cops left—over an hour later. They stopped shining their lights into the yards after they found 4 massive raccoons feasting at a nearby neighbor’s trash, figuring the old scag had mistaken the coons for, well—a coon. She had told them it was a black guy. What she meant was, he was wearing black. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t been specific.

  Standing at the circuit breaker, before flipping all the switches, he saw a basket of the not-yet-washed. Lying on top were a tangle of panties and a bra. He was already jacked, this was icing on the fucking cobbler. Sucking his teeth, he picked out a shiny purple pair and stuffed them into his back pocket, complete with the strands of her red hair tangled in the waistband. A little for later when he kicked back in the recliner with a cold one. Keepsakes and treasures were his forté, and he loved his job.

  A small thud, shattering glass, and a stream of curses followed the flipped switches. Goggles on. He wouldn’t bother with the audio until the crackle and pops from the fireworks stopped. Deliberately, he made his way upstairs to where she was—sitting on the floor in the kitchen, kneading her left foot. An overturned chair, a broken wine glass, and spreading pool of dark told him her tale.

  She still wore her robe, her hair wound up in a striped towel of some unintelligible color—everything being the same vivid lime green thanks-be to his goggles, even her red hair. That was one problem with the goggles. He could deal. He had a vivid catalogue of images of her in his head— going to work, making coffee in the morning, fixing her hair at the bathroom mirror. There was a patch of woods across from the house. An old oak in the middle provided enough cover and space for him to get a real good view— even of the upstairs bathroom. Got the pictures at home. Saw everything, but inside the shower, that was a little out of his line of site and he wasn’t about to climb up higher. He had to laugh when he was there balancing in the tree with his camera. He was a Thomas Harris fan, after all. He was a good boy though and didn't leave any traces— no cigarette butts, no carvings, not even a jizz spot. He was a careful kinda guy.

  He resisted the urge to sigh audibly while he watched her in the kitchen, cradling her foot. It looked like what he thought was maybe a stubbed toe, was actually a laceration. A puddle leaked out the bottom of her foot. She wasn’t kneading an injury but trying to stop the bleeding. She must’ve trodden on the fallen wineglass in the dark.

  Ouch.

  He bit his lip again, feeling his cock stiffen against his leg. Lucky thing he wore the baggier BDUs—otherwise that would be fucking painful. His only question was do her here, or bother taking her whole to the museum? He loved taking them home—taking his time to catalogue everything, seeing how difficult the case really was, figuring out what piece would remain there with him, forever. The easy ones were relegated to shelves out in the open. Some were stuffed, others cured. His two other hobbies were taxidermy and charcuterie. He rarely made sausage out of them, though. He wasn’t Dahmer for Christ’s sake. Dad, however, did do that ––once. There wasn’t enough sage in the mix and way too much salt. Fuckers tasted like Charlie Chaplin’s old boots. Never again. The aggressive ones were allowed to cure—on the bone, as it were—and were then housed under glass or crystal—or yeah, fucking Lucite.

  His accountant never went to the museum—the fat little fucker only saw the receipts for the gear, and told him to stick with the fake stuff. How could that little prick know that the 3 acquisitions sitting under Lucite were slowly going off? Or that their energy was dancing around the entire place? If the guy didn’t almost guarantee a healthy return every tax season, an exception might one day be made to the all-female museum rule dad had established. One day the fat exasperating accountant might find his taxidermied cock slowly going off under Lucite in the museum.

  Sucking his teeth again, he stepped forward—and didn’t see part of the wineglass as it was crunched beneath his right combat boot.

  “Fuck off!” The woman cried.

  “You know I’m here?” He asked, completely taken aback. They almost never had time to talk before.

  “Fuck off!” She shrieked again.

  Usually, they just scream. He felt a little deflated.

  There was
an open pill bottle near the busted wineglass, it’s contents scattered about the floor. One hand still on her foot, the other started feeling around on the linoleum, grasping at pills and ramming them into her mouth—one, two, three, four, five—in quick succession. Apparently she didn’t care if she grabbed a pill or a piece of glass.

  “What are you doing?” It was his turn to shriek, upset. Didn’t she know suicide was a sin? “Stop it!” He felt himself frozen. This was a classic, bell jar tough case. He would be staying on the spot. Never before had he come on an investigation, only to find his case in the middle of killing—herself. That’s just fucking ridiculous. In his distress, he forgot to start the audio.

  “Fuck off!” She warbled around a mouthful of pills, trying to stand up, but succeeding in falling backwards into the counter, smashing the back of her head on the hard, marble countertop in the process. She made a strange rumpled noise as she fell back down to the floor, landing on her lacerated foot with a snap. When she hit the ground, her foot was curved at an odd angle beneath her. Her towel slipped off her wet hair. Its vivid striped lime-green was marked by a darkened stain in the center. He knew her wet hair, a sickly green under the goggles, would be redder at the back now.

  Between the blood loss from her foot, the wine, the pills, and now head trauma—what the fuck was there left for him to do?

  Her robe fell open and he found himself throbbing again as two, prim, dark-nippled breasts stared at him. Shifting herself off her visibly swollen foot, her legs splayed open revealing no drapes at all. He felt cheated again. There was always something slightly disturbing to him about women who removed all their pubes. Okay—so this morning he was busy shaving his own self and nairing his balls, but what were these chicks grasping at—the halcyon days of their fucking adolescence? When he fucked a woman, he wanted to feel he was fucking a woman and not some little goddamned girl. He was NOT a pervert. He liked his women with big titties—but not too big, anything larger than his cereal bowl was Dolly Parton too-fucking-big—and he wanted a bush, but not a jungle.