fire hose. The man slapped his hand over the burst pipe and staggered about the kitchen, dancing to the Mariachi on the radio, before slamming against the wall and crashing to the floor.
I retrieved the apple that had rolled against my feet and took a bite as Senor Morales struggled to regain his footing. But the linoleum was slick with his blood and the pervie couldn’t gain traction-- flopping about as though shitfaced on tequila. Going into shock from blood loss, he finally rolled onto his back and was left staring at me from the floor as the life pumped out of him.
“Hola, senor,” I greeted the man cheerfully. “Me llamo es Evangeline.” (I knew some basic Spanish thanks to Sister). “Gracias for the treat. Sorry about the mess.”
The Mexican opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came through but a gurgling sound. I casually took another bite of the apple then crouched beside him.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” I asked. “A confession perhaps? Go ahead, amigo. Unburden your soul. Evangeline is listening.”
More gurgling.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
This time nothing came out. “Okay,” I shrugged. “Guess it’s my turn.”
I laid the hand sickle aside and began unfastening the pervie’s pants, and that’s when the sonofabitch grabbed my wrist with a sudden move that nearly soiled my panties.
As La Cucaracha began to play, I struggled mightily to pull free, stretching to grab the blade that was just out of reach. But that damn Chicano had an iron grip that could not be shaken. Somehow I managed to drag his leaking carcass a few feet across the floor until I could get my hands on the sickle. And once I did, well, it was bad news for my uncooperative friend from south of the border.
I think it may have been Elvira who once said that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through the chest cavity. So I figured, hey, why the hell not? Well, boys and girls, let me tell you something-- going that route makes an awful mess. And it didn’t help that Angeline was having her period that week. I mean, anything that bleeds for five days without dying can’t be human, right? That’s just how I felt as I gutted that Mexican; like some kind of crazed primal animal lost in an orgasmic blood frenzy… which I suppose accounts for the extra fifty-or-so whacks I gave Senor Morales.
Only when I was too exhausted to continue, and insanity had passed like a Plains dust storm, did I fully comprehend the gory aftermath. My first reaction was disbelief-- total astonishment at the mess I’d made. And yet there was still more bloody work to be done. So I yanked that pervie’s pants to his knees, along with a pair of shit-stained tighty-whities, and cut off that Mexican’s tiny tamale with one bold stroke.
Just for shits-and-giggles, I was making the little fella dance the Cucaracha when the doorbell rang and I heard the excited chatter of trick-or-treaters. With a weary sigh, I dropped the prick into the pillowcase with his big brother and shuffled to the door.
“Trick or treat!” shouted two pint-sized superheroes and a slightly older pirate. But once they got a good look at me their tiny mouths fell agape and their candy bags sagged-- because, friends, I was an absolute bloody fucking mess. I stood in that open door with the hand sickle hanging limply at my side and my body covered in gore. And I mean covered… like a henhouse full of chickens had exploded in my face.
“You’re foolish little children,” I lectured those wee ones. “Don’t you know the devil lives here?”
I hate to disappoint youngsters, even stupid ones, but I had nothing else to offer… so I swung the door shut in their astonished little faces.
By eleven p. m ., an hour before curfew, I was turning off the County Line Road and lurching down the drive that ran parallel to the irrigation pond, all the way to the
I retrieved the apple that had rolled against my feet and took a bite as Senor Morales struggled to regain his footing. But the linoleum was slick with his blood and the pervie couldn’t gain traction-- flopping about as though shitfaced on tequila. Going into shock from blood loss, he finally rolled onto his back and was left staring at me from the floor as the life pumped out of him.
“Hola, senor,” I greeted the man cheerfully. “Me llamo es Evangeline.” (I knew some basic Spanish thanks to Sister). “Gracias for the treat. Sorry about the mess.”
The Mexican opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came through but a gurgling sound. I casually took another bite of the apple then crouched beside him.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” I asked. “A confession perhaps? Go ahead, amigo. Unburden your soul. Evangeline is listening.”
More gurgling.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
This time nothing came out. “Okay,” I shrugged. “Guess it’s my turn.”
I laid the hand sickle aside and began unfastening the pervie’s pants, and that’s when the sonofabitch grabbed my wrist with a sudden move that nearly soiled my panties.
As La Cucaracha began to play, I struggled mightily to pull free, stretching to grab the blade that was just out of reach. But that damn Chicano had an iron grip that could not be shaken. Somehow I managed to drag his leaking carcass a few feet across the floor until I could get my hands on the sickle. And once I did, well, it was bad news for my uncooperative friend from south of the border.
I think it may have been Elvira who once said that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through the chest cavity. So I figured, hey, why the hell not? Well, boys and girls, let me tell you something-- going that route makes an awful mess. And it didn’t help that Angeline was having her period that week. I mean, anything that bleeds for five days without dying can’t be human, right? That’s just how I felt as I gutted that Mexican; like some kind of crazed primal animal lost in an orgasmic blood frenzy… which I suppose accounts for the extra fifty-or-so whacks I gave Senor Morales.
Only when I was too exhausted to continue, and insanity had passed like a Plains dust storm, did I fully comprehend the gory aftermath. My first reaction was disbelief-- total astonishment at the mess I’d made. And yet there was still more bloody work to be done. So I yanked that pervie’s pants to his knees, along with a pair of shit-stained tighty-whities, and cut off that Mexican’s tiny tamale with one bold stroke.
Just for shits-and-giggles, I was making the little fella dance the Cucaracha when the doorbell rang and I heard the excited chatter of trick-or-treaters. With a weary sigh, I dropped the prick into the pillowcase with his big brother and shuffled to the door.
“Trick or treat!” shouted two pint-sized superheroes and a slightly older pirate. But once they got a good look at me their tiny mouths fell agape and their candy bags sagged-- because, friends, I was an absolute bloody fucking mess. I stood in that open door with the hand sickle hanging limply at my side and my body covered in gore. And I mean covered… like a henhouse full of chickens had exploded in my face.
“You’re foolish little children,” I lectured those wee ones. “Don’t you know the devil lives here?”
I hate to disappoint youngsters, even stupid ones, but I had nothing else to offer… so I swung the door shut in their astonished little faces.
By eleven p. m ., an hour before curfew, I was turning off the County Line Road and lurching down the drive that ran parallel to the irrigation pond, all the way to the
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