***
The second coin, identical to the first, lie next to its mate as Gustav glued the creases. He'd placed a wad of cotton, expertly shaped, beneath each lid, to give the sunken eyes a natural appearance. It was so natural, that along with the meticulous sewing of the jaw he'd done, Mr. Kelley now appeared to be sleeping contentedly.
There were two minutes to midnight. Gustav smiled. Whatever nonsense this had been—a trick! perhaps by his haughty employer!—it was about to be over. He had both coins, he was still wholly alive, and his hands didn't tremble at all.
This called for a celebratory pint.
Whistling softly, he wheeled the difficult Mr. Kelley into the cooler. More puddles on the floor, which he ignored. He'd open the cooler in the morning and report the mess to Mr. Markowitz, as if he'd just discovered it. Satisfied with the evening, he turned around and promptly slipped, cracking his head against the corner of a large block of ice.
It was several minutes before he could, groggily, get to his feet. His eyesight blurred. Blinking, he stumbled out, shook himself, and set off.
He took his favorite seat in the pub, but Bernard passed him by. He flagged the man down, but still Bernard ignored him. Was it the tab? Had it finally gone too high?
"Hey," he called. "Look here." He flashed one of the coins, but still Bernard leaned against the bar, wiping glasses, talking to another patron.
"Parched," said the man next to him, who Gustav did not remember being there when he sat down. "You must be parched."
"Yes," he said, but it came out as a rasp, for he was, indeed, terribly parched. He scratched his throat in confusion and looked at the man.
There on the stool, smiling, sat Peter Capp.
Markowitz Funeral Home's former embalmer.
Gustav stared, wide-eyed. "You... You're..." He coughed, throat dry as sandpaper.
The man stood, fuzzy gray eyebrows rising. "I know where you can get a drink." He walked to the door. "Come, Gustav."
Gustav, wide-eyed, got up from his seat, rasping goodbye to Bernard, who did not reply, and followed his predecessor into the cold night.
They walked back along the winding streets to the funeral home. Gustav could not find his key, suddenly, but they did not need it.
Inside, Mr. Markowitz waited beside a gleaming stainless steel table in the embalming room. Gustav stared.
His body lay on the table, skin blue, the hair matted with drying blood.
Trembling, he grasped the coins in his hands, tight.
"Thirsty," he said, sounding like a crow.
Smiling, Capp said, "Of course, Gustav. Whatever you'd like," and he gestured for Gustav to climb onto the table.
There should've been no room, but Gustav slipped easily onto the table with his body.
Mr. Markowitz and Peter took positions on either side. Peter opened his shirt. The puncture of the scalpel was skillful; he could barely feel it. Mr. Markowitz, meanwhile, made an incision near his clavicle.
Gustav would've gone a bit lower, but all things considered...
A tube filled with red, while the other, near his clavicle, sent cold, cold liquid rushing into him. He shivered and was quiet.
At last, at last, he was quenched.
"Close your eyes," said Peter softly, a swab in his hand, a dab of glue on the end.
Gustav closed his eyes.
The glue was cold, but the coins—the coins were warm, warm as sunshine.
He did not feel the weight of the two red roses that Mr. Markowitz laid on his chest. They were as light as feathers.
Feet
Chris Allinotte
Jeremiah hated cooking feet. They were just so much work for so little meat. Worse, and he wouldn't have thought this possible, they absolutely stunk. Still, he had to admit that stringy stew was better than no stew at all. He stirred the pot, poking a toe below the surface. At least he'd remembered to remove the nail polish this time.
The radio played a steady stream of traffic, weather and news. Apparently Police Chief McCullough was being honoured this evening for his work in lowering the crime rate. There had been fewer than twenty murders in the entire district last year. Jeremiah grinned. He could've told them about six of those, though murder was too strong a word. After all, a man had to eat.
Knock, knock, knock.
Jeremiah looked up from the pot, surprised. His house was set back from the road, at the edge of the city limits, and he had left every light off except for the little bulb on the stove. And it was calling for a rainstorm.
Knock, knock, knock.
Jeremiah put the lid back on the pot and went to answer the door. The caller carried a large, flat, leather satchel, and was already opening it. The contents steamed in the cool, wet October air.
"I didn't order that," said Jeremiah.
The delivery boy, who couldn't have been older than nineteen, frowned. The expression was the "why me" of someone who has suffered long and aggravated annoyance.
"I have the receipt," he said, digging in the pockets of his puffy orange coat. Jeremiah studied the boy's chubby, ruddy complexion, and felt the first stirrings of desire.
No. Not here, thought Jeremiah.
"Look,” he said. “You don't need to show me anything to find out that you are mistaken."
The boy had pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, and gave it a quick look before jabbing it in Jeremiah's direction.
"Right there. 2324 Roanoke St. West. That's here, right."
Jeremiah glanced at the bill. From behind him, he could hear the pot lid rattling. He had to restrain himself from kicking this little pig down the stairs, pizza and all. Wee wee wee, all the way home, his mind finished.
As calmly as he could manage, Jeremiah said, "This is Roanoke Street East. It changes over at Donner."
If he hadn't been so eager to see him gone, Jeremiah would have taken pleasure in watching the boy's confidence crumble.
"Shit!" The boy pulled the slip back and examined it under the light of a cell phone. His head jerked up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to swear."
"That's fine," said Jeremiah. "But I'll just leave you to sort it out now. Goodbye." He started to close the door.
"Wait."
"Yes?" The calm behind that 'yes' was costing Jeremiah, who was starting to view the delivery boy in terms of cutlets and chops.
"Do you want to buy this pizza? I'll never make it to the right address in time, and it comes off my pay. It's a twenty dollar order. What if I gave it to you for ten?"
Enough. "I don't like pizza," said Jeremiah. "Perhaps twenty dollars is what it will cost you to learn to read."
"Oh, fu..."
Jeremiah slammed the door, cutting off the rest of the boy's no-doubt eloquent reply.
Back at the stove, he removed the lid, and wrinkled his nose at the puff of pungent foot-scented steam that escaped. It wouldn’t be a bad stew, but he’d need some seasoning to make the meat taste like something other than old socks. Some biscuits would go nicely with it, he thought, and took a roll of instant dough out of the fridge.
He “tsked” as the paper wrapper tore before he got very far along, and he began working on the cardboard seam with a spoon.
Perhaps after dinner he would run the blanched bones from the freezer through the grinder and mix it in with his compost pile. It was never too late to add another layer of insulation to his tulip bulbs.
Knock, knock, knock.
Unbelievable.
Jeremiah covered his pot again, and went to the door. His temper, which had been quite calm when he’d started making dinner, surged now, and tinges of red began creeping into the peripheral of his vision. He looked through the peephole, but couldn’t make out the two faces, as the evening had darkened quickly since the delivery boy had left, and he still hadn’t put on his outdoor light.
He flicked the light switch and cracked the door. On his step were a young man with short hair, matted to his head from the rain, wearing a crisp shirt and tie.
With him was an older woman in a black blazer and skirt, holding a small umbrella.
“Good evening,” the woman said. “How would you like to never be hungry again?”
Against his better judgment, Jeremiah replied, “I was just making dinner.” He would have immediately closed the door but, in truth, he was getting hungry, and she had a nice, stocky build. What was stew when you could have a nice, finely aged flank steak?
“But what about your soul?” She had already begun opening a thick black book she’d been holding at her side.
“What about I cut your calf muscle off and feed it to you?” The reply almost escaped his lips, but Jeremiah bit it back, instead managing, “Please step back from my door.”
Jeremiah looked down for a moment, collecting his self control. Then he looked the woman directly in the eyes. “I do not want to have a conversation with you, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t come back.” His heart was pounding, and it was a struggle to keep his voice steady. “If you do, I will be much less polite..”
“You may still find something of interest in this small pamphlet sir,” said the man.
Jeremiah slammed the door hard enough to shake the front wall of the house, then he turned and slumped down against it.
So close. So close to losing control and killing them right on his doorstep. That would be the end of it, though. Game over. He took some deep breaths and stood back up. From outside, he heard the mailbox squeak-bang as it opened and closed.
Let it go. He willed himself to calm down. Let it go. Make supper, eat supper. Move on.
Back at the pot, he stirred in some chili powder and paprika. Melanie Watson’s foot was proving to be as tasteless and tough as she herself had been in the mini mall parking lot. He glanced at the scabs on his forearms and smiled. That had been a good night.
While the spices blended, Jeremiah finished with the biscuits and popped the tray into the oven. With that done, he found he had time to kill. Opening a drawer, he took out his two largest butcher knives, his whetstone, and a small can of oil. Taking everything to the kitchen table, he began to hone his tools. A minute or so into his task, the first drops of rain began to patter on the roof. Small individual pings quickly gave way to a wave of staccato gunfire on his old wooden roof. Jeremiah turned the radio up.
Knock, knock, knock.
The red rage came rushing back with a suddenness that would have frightened Jeremiah if he had been of a mind to examine it. Instead, he stalked to the door, still clutching the largest knife hard enough to make his knuckles ache. He swung the door open hard, banging it against the wall, making his visitor jumped back with a small cry. It took a moment to register what he was seeing, and then his vision cleared, and he beheld perfection.
The woman was short, with broad shoulders and thick legs. Long red-brown hair with a single wide streak of garish purple was plastered to her plump cheeks.
"Oh, hi, she said. "You startled me. Thank God you're home. My car stalled about three clicks back, and my phone's dead. Could I please use yours? I'm so late." This all came out in a rush between chattering teeth.
Don't, Jeremiah's inner voice of reason cautioned, but it was muffled now, and harder to pay attention to amidst the pleasant red hum of impending violence.
"Sure, come on in," he said aloud, smiling. "It's just in here, through the kitchen." Poor lost piggie, he thought as she passed by. So distraught, so willing to trust.
Foot stew would keep.
The woman stopped short in the kitchen. She turned, wrinkling up her nose.
"What are you cook--" Her last word became a scream as Jeremiah stepped in with the knife.
He reached past her, grabbed a hank of wet hair and jerked her head back, then buried the blade underneath her chin. She dropped to the ground, twitching violently for a moment, and then lay forever still. Jeremiah got to work.