him, he’s just a brute. Let’s enjoy our dinner. I’m so tired. I flew in from Thailand yesterday. Been at the dentist all day.Old Grumpy makes me stay at a flea-trap hotel in this Godforsaken town. So, so tired, panther. So tired. Leaving on a flight tomorrow to… Oh panther, tsk tsk to me, going on about my fool self. I bet you just want to eat. Tee-hee-hee.”
What movie did I watch with Lenny, my boyfriend? Ah yes
, Three On A Meathook.
The son and mother and father, all killers. A family of psychopaths
. Tchaikovsky morphed into the screeching soundtrack of a stabbing knife through a shower curtain.
Brad uncovered a pile of sliced meat on a platter and placed two pieces on my plate. I hoped the meat was veal, for the slab looked and smelled as such, although I could no longer trust my senses in this den of insanity. Brad also served a pyramid of glistening green beans, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and a delicate trail of glazed carrots. He cut the meat into tiny bites, leaning in to my side as though he were my doting new mother.
“Panther lady, my brother and I, perhaps just I, are, am, wondering,” and here his high voice switched to a forced, low grumbling, like he was talking funny-serious to a toddler, “why you glare at him with such mean eyes?” He continued in a quick return to a higher voice, “What? You don’t like the food he gives you? Tee-hee-hee. Don’t worry, we don’t let him cook. He couldn’t even hold a job flipping bacon at a diner! Remember, brother? Remember when you tried to get away from your Brady-poo? How’d that work out for you?”
Brad blinked at my captor.
“Ol’ fatty has to work with me. He’s too dumb to do anything else. Anyway, anyway, I prattle on. You probably give him mean eyes because he’s such a fat slob.” Brad nudged my shoulder to laugh along with him. I exerted a short, “Ha,” only to catch my captor’s stare, a cold, dead stare, which was scattered with incessant blinking. This was the first time I noted him blinking, blinking, blinking.
“Shut the fuck up, Brad. Let’s get this over with.” Blink. Blink.
“Now, brother, relax. The girl should enjoy a nice widdle dinny-poo. Right, panther?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir?!” Brad howled. “Yes, sir?! Oh brother, oh brother, she’s a little baby, cute baby panther.”
Brad turned to his plate. My hands were on my lap. He took a bite, his eyes darting to my clenched fists. He scowled, losing his tittering lightness in a flash of squinting eyes.
“Pick your fucking fork up and eat the veal I made you. Now!” Brad screamed in a deep, loathing voice. “Tee-hee-hee,” he added with a returned high tone.
I picked up my fork. I ate the baby calf.
“Now, brother, why is panther here calling me ‘sir’? Is this what you make her call you?”
My captor slumped, shoving mashed potatoes into his open, chewing mouth.
“Brother, brother. You’re never going to get over daddy-poo, are you?” Brad twisted to me. “Pretty panther, my brother here is very scarred. Our daddy, our sweet, sweet daddy, made us call him ‘sir.’ Even when we had the flu and were throwing up in our pressed pajamas, it was, ‘sir, I am so sorry for puking, sir.’ Oh, panther cat, guess what my sweet daddy did to my dumb brother once?”
“Brad, if you don’t shut your shit-spewing mouth right now…” Blink. Blink. Blink, blink, blink.
Brad interrupted with a deafening two-palm slam on the table. The glass teardrop chandelier shook as he stood to lean into a scream.
“Oh, brother, you will shut up,” Brad said, wielding a pointing knife across the table while audibly sucking a shard of meat from his teeth with his tongue.
My captor shut up. Brad sat down and scrunched his nose in a kitten smile to me.
Hmm, strange dynamic. The feminine twin has power over the fat slob twin
. I leaned a fraction closer to Brad, perhaps wanting to forge an unconscious partnership in his mind.
“Brother, brother,
What movie did I watch with Lenny, my boyfriend? Ah yes
, Three On A Meathook.
The son and mother and father, all killers. A family of psychopaths
. Tchaikovsky morphed into the screeching soundtrack of a stabbing knife through a shower curtain.
Brad uncovered a pile of sliced meat on a platter and placed two pieces on my plate. I hoped the meat was veal, for the slab looked and smelled as such, although I could no longer trust my senses in this den of insanity. Brad also served a pyramid of glistening green beans, a dollop of mashed potatoes, and a delicate trail of glazed carrots. He cut the meat into tiny bites, leaning in to my side as though he were my doting new mother.
“Panther lady, my brother and I, perhaps just I, are, am, wondering,” and here his high voice switched to a forced, low grumbling, like he was talking funny-serious to a toddler, “why you glare at him with such mean eyes?” He continued in a quick return to a higher voice, “What? You don’t like the food he gives you? Tee-hee-hee. Don’t worry, we don’t let him cook. He couldn’t even hold a job flipping bacon at a diner! Remember, brother? Remember when you tried to get away from your Brady-poo? How’d that work out for you?”
Brad blinked at my captor.
“Ol’ fatty has to work with me. He’s too dumb to do anything else. Anyway, anyway, I prattle on. You probably give him mean eyes because he’s such a fat slob.” Brad nudged my shoulder to laugh along with him. I exerted a short, “Ha,” only to catch my captor’s stare, a cold, dead stare, which was scattered with incessant blinking. This was the first time I noted him blinking, blinking, blinking.
“Shut the fuck up, Brad. Let’s get this over with.” Blink. Blink.
“Now, brother, relax. The girl should enjoy a nice widdle dinny-poo. Right, panther?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir?!” Brad howled. “Yes, sir?! Oh brother, oh brother, she’s a little baby, cute baby panther.”
Brad turned to his plate. My hands were on my lap. He took a bite, his eyes darting to my clenched fists. He scowled, losing his tittering lightness in a flash of squinting eyes.
“Pick your fucking fork up and eat the veal I made you. Now!” Brad screamed in a deep, loathing voice. “Tee-hee-hee,” he added with a returned high tone.
I picked up my fork. I ate the baby calf.
“Now, brother, why is panther here calling me ‘sir’? Is this what you make her call you?”
My captor slumped, shoving mashed potatoes into his open, chewing mouth.
“Brother, brother. You’re never going to get over daddy-poo, are you?” Brad twisted to me. “Pretty panther, my brother here is very scarred. Our daddy, our sweet, sweet daddy, made us call him ‘sir.’ Even when we had the flu and were throwing up in our pressed pajamas, it was, ‘sir, I am so sorry for puking, sir.’ Oh, panther cat, guess what my sweet daddy did to my dumb brother once?”
“Brad, if you don’t shut your shit-spewing mouth right now…” Blink. Blink. Blink, blink, blink.
Brad interrupted with a deafening two-palm slam on the table. The glass teardrop chandelier shook as he stood to lean into a scream.
“Oh, brother, you will shut up,” Brad said, wielding a pointing knife across the table while audibly sucking a shard of meat from his teeth with his tongue.
My captor shut up. Brad sat down and scrunched his nose in a kitten smile to me.
Hmm, strange dynamic. The feminine twin has power over the fat slob twin
. I leaned a fraction closer to Brad, perhaps wanting to forge an unconscious partnership in his mind.
“Brother, brother,
Similar Books
