Frankie released a deep guttural laugh. "You're one sick fuck! You know that?"I shook my head, setting down the hand saw that I was preparing on the table next toJerry's right hand. I turned around to face Frankie, eager to end this conversation. I hadn't eatensince lunch."I could give less than two shits what you think about me, Frankie! So long as yourmoney's good, this kid is going to find himself a permanent resident of my large intestine, andyou'll get away with murder, again. Sound good?"Frankie nodded, the smile fading from his face. "Yeah, sure. I'll leave. Enjoy yourdinner."I winced at the amount of sarcasm Frankie placed into his last sentence and watched as heleft through the door, closing it with a metallic clang that rang across the wall of the warehouse. Iturned back to Jerry and reached for the remote. It was just about time for Shelly Barnes' showon the Food Network.I chuckled at the thought as I drove the spinning handsaw in my hands down into therecently deceased flesh of Jerry Parkinson. The skin separated in a beautiful fountain of
coagulated blood. I’m sure wherever Jerry is right now, he
wishes he had bathed before the boys
from the dock came a’lookin’ for their money. Or maybe he just shat himself when they blew his
brains out. I always hated it when they did that
ruins all the head meat; then, I gotta eat aroundthe gunpowder. I turned off the saw, silencing its shrill cries and placed onto the table next to the
now severed hand. It was one thing to break the gun rule, but I’m not eating shit. I pulled my cell
phone out of my pocket and quick
ly dialed Frankie’s number. The line rang sev
eral times beforehis nervous Mexican voice answered.
“I thought I told you not to call me after nine!”I didn’t bother apologizing.
That was his job here.
“Sorry, but I have to ask, did your boys realize that this kid shit himself before they did
him in? I told you, Frankie;
I don’t eat shit
never have and never will. My mamma raised me
better than that.”
Frankie laughed sarcastically.
“Your mamma raised a sadistic bastard, so you’ve got noright to talk. But I can see how that would be unpleasant. I’ll raise the payment by ten percent.”
He had to be joking.
or I call the cops,”“Fifteen, and that’s my final offer, asshole.”
I smiled silently, giving him a moment to let the thought of life in prison sink in.
, it is. Pleasure doing business with you,
Frankie! Tell Sharlene I said hello!”
Frankie started to say something else, no doubt another low brow insult, as I closed thephone. I looked up from my work and took a moment to appreciate the lovely woman on themodest television across the room, preparing a steak on her famous show that airs Sunday nightson the Food Network.
it was called, or something along those lines. I usually
don’t work on weekends, but Frankie Ramirez pays good to have his dirty work disposed of, and
Lord knows I need to pay the bills. I looked over to my right, at the display of knives, powertools, and utensils splayed across the metal cart
all of which were charitably donated by thelocal hospital.As I picked up the cleaver, I held it ever so carefully over the fingers of the severed hand.As I did, Shelly Barnes made a comment about putting basil on the meat to give it thatsophisticated flavor.
You would go great with some basil, Jerry!
I thought as I brought down thecleaver on the pinkie finger. The finger popped off the hand like a cork from a wine bottle andbegan rolling across the metal slab. I leaped over and caught it just before it fell off. I raised the