body’d been oiled, then rolled in a pile of dust and webs and bugs. There were dead spiders smeared all over my chest and arms and legs. Some old blood from the folks last night, too. Plus, I was dotted with lots of red bumps. I itched like crazy.
I could smell my sweat, too. My sweat, and the stale blood.
Usually, I do like the others and lather up. I didn’t do it last night, though. A good thing, too. For one, the cops—Hank and Pat—would’ve caught a whiff of me the second they came through the door.
Maybe I’d better explain. Lathering up is one of the things we do before we start on a foray. It’s like actors putting on their makeup before the curtain opens on a play. We do it in Tom’s van. That’s where we change into our skins, where we arm ourselves, and where we lather up.
We don’t lather up with soap. We scoop the stuff out of a big jar and smear ourselves with it. Tom labeled the jar, LUCKY STIFF STUFF. It’s just his sense of humor. Inside the jar, what we’ve got is a portion of someone we’ve killed.
Killed a while ago.
The stuff is slimy and ripe.
Some of us dab it on like after-shave. Some like to really pile it on. It’s pretty disgusting what some of them do with the stuff.
I use it sparingly, myself. A touch here, a spot there.
We do it for good luck. And because the death stench instills fear in the hearts of our enemies. And we also do it just because it’s so fucking weird we get a kick out of it.
Anyway, I didn’t lather up last night because the trots hit me. Tom’s got a toilet in the van. That’s where I sat while the others were doing their bit with the jar. By the time I got finished and came out, they’d already left.
Hey, what do you know? I never thought of this till just now—the jerks had gone on ahead to the house to start without me, and then later they drove off without me and left me in this fix. So this was like a preview of coming betrayals.
Anyway, all I wanted to do was catch up. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. So I didn’t bother gooping myself.
Maybe that saved me.
In fact, I’m sure it did. Those cops that came looking for me in the utility room would’ve smelled me. I’d be dead right now if I’d used the Lucky Stiff Stuff. Dead and soon to become my own brand, my own flavor of the week. Simon Scent.
Great. I’m starting to get morbid.
Probably the beer.
Anyway, the thing is, I didn’t use the stuff, so I didn’t stink, so the cops didn’t nail me. So there I was hunkered down in the utility room this morning, waiting for Hillary Weston, sweaty and itchy—but stinking of nothing much worse than my own BO.
I sure wished she would hurry back.
After a while, I started thinking about what I’d like to do to her. That got me pretty excited, so basically I forgot about how hot and itchy and miserable I was.
Finally, she came back.
When she walked past me, I stabbed the top of her foot. She wasn’t wearing shoes or socks or anything, so my knife went right into her bare skin. She sucked in a big, surprised breath and tried to jump back. Her foot actually jerked up off the floor. It didn’t get away, though. All it did was slide a few inches up my knife blade.
Then it was me who jerked her foot up. I pulled out the knife while my other hand clutched her ankle and yanked her leg forward and shoved it really high.
She was letting out a squeal until her back slammed the floor. Which knocked her wind out. After that, all she could do was wheeze.
I landed on top of her, sat on her chest, grabbed a handful of hair to keep her head pinned down and pushed my blade against her throat. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to cut her.
Next, I asked who was in the house.
She shook her head. She tried to talk, but only choked out some noises. Her chest was pumping fast. It felt good, going up and down under me that way. And I liked how I could feel her shaking.
After a while, she whimpered, “Please don’t hurt
I could smell my sweat, too. My sweat, and the stale blood.
Usually, I do like the others and lather up. I didn’t do it last night, though. A good thing, too. For one, the cops—Hank and Pat—would’ve caught a whiff of me the second they came through the door.
Maybe I’d better explain. Lathering up is one of the things we do before we start on a foray. It’s like actors putting on their makeup before the curtain opens on a play. We do it in Tom’s van. That’s where we change into our skins, where we arm ourselves, and where we lather up.
We don’t lather up with soap. We scoop the stuff out of a big jar and smear ourselves with it. Tom labeled the jar, LUCKY STIFF STUFF. It’s just his sense of humor. Inside the jar, what we’ve got is a portion of someone we’ve killed.
Killed a while ago.
The stuff is slimy and ripe.
Some of us dab it on like after-shave. Some like to really pile it on. It’s pretty disgusting what some of them do with the stuff.
I use it sparingly, myself. A touch here, a spot there.
We do it for good luck. And because the death stench instills fear in the hearts of our enemies. And we also do it just because it’s so fucking weird we get a kick out of it.
Anyway, I didn’t lather up last night because the trots hit me. Tom’s got a toilet in the van. That’s where I sat while the others were doing their bit with the jar. By the time I got finished and came out, they’d already left.
Hey, what do you know? I never thought of this till just now—the jerks had gone on ahead to the house to start without me, and then later they drove off without me and left me in this fix. So this was like a preview of coming betrayals.
Anyway, all I wanted to do was catch up. I didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun. So I didn’t bother gooping myself.
Maybe that saved me.
In fact, I’m sure it did. Those cops that came looking for me in the utility room would’ve smelled me. I’d be dead right now if I’d used the Lucky Stiff Stuff. Dead and soon to become my own brand, my own flavor of the week. Simon Scent.
Great. I’m starting to get morbid.
Probably the beer.
Anyway, the thing is, I didn’t use the stuff, so I didn’t stink, so the cops didn’t nail me. So there I was hunkered down in the utility room this morning, waiting for Hillary Weston, sweaty and itchy—but stinking of nothing much worse than my own BO.
I sure wished she would hurry back.
After a while, I started thinking about what I’d like to do to her. That got me pretty excited, so basically I forgot about how hot and itchy and miserable I was.
Finally, she came back.
When she walked past me, I stabbed the top of her foot. She wasn’t wearing shoes or socks or anything, so my knife went right into her bare skin. She sucked in a big, surprised breath and tried to jump back. Her foot actually jerked up off the floor. It didn’t get away, though. All it did was slide a few inches up my knife blade.
Then it was me who jerked her foot up. I pulled out the knife while my other hand clutched her ankle and yanked her leg forward and shoved it really high.
She was letting out a squeal until her back slammed the floor. Which knocked her wind out. After that, all she could do was wheeze.
I landed on top of her, sat on her chest, grabbed a handful of hair to keep her head pinned down and pushed my blade against her throat. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to cut her.
Next, I asked who was in the house.
She shook her head. She tried to talk, but only choked out some noises. Her chest was pumping fast. It felt good, going up and down under me that way. And I liked how I could feel her shaking.
After a while, she whimpered, “Please don’t hurt
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