Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs Page B

I’ll press the button and initiate the crush. The shopping cart’s metal basket will dig into her body, cutting her flesh into squares, as her blood spills onto the cardboard. Her screams won’t last long, but I’ll keep screaming until someone else shows up.
    My plan is unfolding perfectly.
    I grab the stool, climb onto it.
    Terri, glances at me.
    “Where’d you get the stepstool?”
    “Behind the—”
    “Never mind. Help me get this cart out.”
    I reach for the handle of the feed gate, ready to lower the grate, when I realize my fatal flaw: The mystery customer won’t be found guilty for Terri’s death . I will. Mr. Mystery is long gone; no way could he have pressed the deadly button. Plus, because I created a commotion, Wendy and Doreen are witnesses. They can verify the timing.
    Dumb, dumb, dumb!
    Heartbroken, I help Terri heave the basket from the baler.
    “Move, Sadie. Let me use the stool.”
    I step down, in a daze.
    Until Terri says, “Don’t stand there gawking. Finish emptying the trash.”

Marcus
    Penis, penis, penis, penis, penis.
    Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls.
    Vagina.
    I wake up with these words running through my head, devoid of meaning, like disconnected body parts. A residue of Xanax coats my brain, but that doesn’t stop me from downing another.
    When I open the bedroom closet, I see the power drill, its tip red with blood that I neglected to wash off. The chainsaw isn’t in its usual place. Strange. I wade through my collection of running shoes, cross-trainers, hiking boots, tennis shoes (I don’t really play tennis) and high heels I seldom wear, even search behind my winter Sorel’s. A chainsaw isn’t easily misplaced, but mine is missing.
    An image surfaces. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or a memory. I’m on my bicycle, bumping along the path with the chainsaw in the basket. No streetlights, just the moon. My bike light blinks along the pavement.
    Balls, balls, balls .
    The image fades and my stomach growls, reminding me that last night I neglected to eat dinner.
    Barefoot, I pad to the kitchen, stand in front of the refrigerator examining the contents. Half a container of expired almond milk, a shriveled peach, a plastic container that used to hold Chia seeds and now holds what appears to be a penis.
    Nothing I feel like eating.
    I open the freezer, half-expecting to find a head, take out a container of cookie dough ice cream and carry the container into the living room. A picture window overlooks the courtyard, and I have a fine view of the jungle gym and swings, but it’s too early for children to be playing.
    Vagina, vagina, vagina.
    Penis, penis, penis.
    Last night, after the incident (or non-incident) with Terri and the baler, I received another phone call from my father, and I made the mistake of answering. He spent ten minutes telling me only imbeciles, Negroes, and ex-cons work in supermarkets, then he accused my mother of sleeping with Obama.
    “She’s dead, Dad. If she screwed any presidents it would have to be George Senior.”
    “She’s too young for Washington.”
    “Bush.”
    “Bush? You mean cherry tree. Don’t they teach you anything in school?”
    After that enlightening conversation, I rode home as usual, my frustration growing with each turn of the pedals. All my careful planning had been for nothing; the entire evening added up to a giant fiasco. I pedaled past the science museum (people wearing robot gear, drinking cocktails), flew past the library (closed for the night), then circled back to Happy Valley, the old folk’s home. They call it independent living. What a joke. Old people get stuck in those places because they need help. I tried to get my dad to sign up, but he claims he’s too independent for independent living, says he’ll only consider moving in if the aides are topless. I told him, these days, a lot of aides are men, and he lost interest.
    A lot of things aren’t what they claim to be.
    This ice cream,