Category Archives: N. D. Coley

Fun Sized

James Savini was not happy. He held the miniature Tootsie Roll in his left hand, his thumb and index finger delicately fixed around the wrapper. His right hand propped up his .38 Special. He twisted and turned the tip of the barrel, pressing it into Sam Overton’s forehead. It would leave a mark. How much of a mark was up to Overton.

“What the fuck,” Jim said, “Is this?” He held the Tootsie Roll cautiously, as if it were a piece of packaged shit. Overton closed his eyes. Warm liquid ran down his leg and onto his flip-flops. The smell of piss followed.

“Tha-Tha,” Mr. Overton stuttered, “That’s a Too-T-oo–Tootsie Roll.”

“I know what the fuck it is, Sam,” Jim growled, “What was it doing in my kid’s pillow case? Where’s the good shit? The king-sized stuff that you always pass out? Little Jimmy’s been cryin’ for an hour.”

“I r-r-r, r-r-rannn out,” Overton sobbed.

Jim cocked the hammer back and pushed the barrel even harder, putting Overton fully into his foyer. Jim dropped the candy, reached behind himself and pulled Overton’s front door shut.

“My bullshit reservoir floweth over, Sam.”

“I-I-I-.”

“Little Jimmy saw kids coming out of your place with the good stuff. What gives? You think my kid is a fattie? A big old porker? Think he needs to stick to wimpy shit?” Jim pulled back the gun and gave Overton’s gut a nice hard kiss. With his knee. Overton, a short, fat, shape-less man, made an oomph sound, curled up, and put his hands up to hide his face. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He gave Overton another kiss. Right in the kidney. With this shoe.

“Not a word, ya hear?”

Jim opened the door. There were two girls, both dressed like Disney princesses. Probably about 9 or 10, he figured. They held out two pillowcases and pleaded.

“Trick or Treat!”

Jim scanned the porch and found an orange bowl, filled to the top with the rabbit turds that his boy had brought home. He snatched it, dumped half the bowl in each sack, and told the girls to fuck off. As one of them started to cry, Jim slammed the door and fumbled for the porch light, flicking it downward. There would be no more treats tonight. Overton looked up and squealed.

“D-D-Don’t H-H-Hurt me, Mr. Savini.”

“Oh, I’m not gonna hurt ya. You’re gonna hurt ya.” Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic tube.

“This here,” Jim said, “is for giving especially large pills to big and nasty dogs.” He paused and picked up the Tootsie Roll from the floor. “You, Mr. Overton, are going to stick this right up your ass.”

Overton’s hands trembled. Still curled up, he reached for the plastic tube and the Tootsie Roll. Snot dribbled down his lips and hung off of his chin. He wiped it with his forearm, fumbled to hold onto the items, and dropped them. Jim frowned.

“My well of patience runneth empty, Sam.” Jim raised up a foot and brought it down on Sam’s toes. Sam howled, and his eyes bulged.

“S-S-S- Sorry, J-J-J–”

“Mr. Savini,” Jim corrected.

“Sorry. Mr. Savini.”

“Apology accepted. Right after you stick that up your ass.”

Overton reached for the items and, trembling worse than before, shifted the Tootsie Roll into the launch position. He pulled down his athletic shorts, revealing an ass that was half acne and half Albino. Overton closed his eyes and sunk the tube in the sweet spot.

“Deeper, Sam.”

Overton scrunched his face and gave the tube a final shove. His face turned red. He bit his lip and let his head hang.

“That a boy, Sam,” Jim said, patting Overton on the head.

Jim walked into Overton’s living room. In front of him stood the largest freshwater fish tank Jim had ever seen. It seemed to cover the whole wall. Fish swam in slow, lazy circles, in and out of fake plants and a plastic pirate ship. They weren’t going anywhere either. Jim pointed at one, which seemed to glisten more than the others, and smiled.

“Sam Overton. You never told me you had a Platinum Arowana. That’s a hell of a fish. And I know my fish. That’s a rare color, Sam. A fish like that will run a man at least $400,000. Where’d you get the cash for a specimen like that? You’re comfy, Sam, but you ain’t that comfy.”

Sam eyed Jim and said nothing. Talking would only make it worse.

“I suppose you could say that I’m a man who’s been… inconvenienced. But I know how to fix this.”

Jim snatched a lamp from a nearby side table, turned it upside down, and brought the base squarely into the fish tank. The sound of the glass breaking was almost muffled by the whooshing of the water. Dozens of fish flopped this way and that, and then stopped. Their bellies moved up and down.

“That’s better,” Jim said, side stepping an expanding puddle of water. He opened a nearby closet and pulled out a broom and a dustpan. “When you get that thing out of your ass, go scoop up that fish. Have it stuffed.”

Overton sniffled.

“And Sam?” Jim whispered, stooping down to Overton’s head. “You still owe us for that stash of blow that you lost. The boss says you’ve got a week. I think that’s fair. Oh! And one more thing.”

“Y-Y-Y—ess? Mr. Savini?”

“I want a box of Snicker’s bars with your payment. The good stuff. None of that fun-sized shit.”

Laundered

Mildred sat down on the plastic chair outside the laundromat and lit a cigarette. The warmth of the lighter felt good. It was 20 degrees, and close to midnight. She shivered. Her sweater was thin. Her coat was in a dryer, but the dryer wasn’t spinning. She was short a quarter. She thought she might take a walk and find one, but she’d taken that walk before. She wouldn’t find much. Cigarette boxes. Bottles of Mountain Dew. Maybe a nickel.

+++++She took a drag and snubbed the cigarette into her gas bill. She wished she could taste her cancer stick, but her sinuses were clogged. She sighed and took another drag, but no luck. No taste, and no smell. She wanted menthol. Menthol made her smile.

+++++Mildred crumpled up the invoice. It was their third notice. She got the memo yesterday, when Boyd left the house with gin and chicken wings on his breath, on what she was sure would be another bender. He would probably come home in a few days with an index card detailing how much he owed his bookie, or the phone number of another whore, or if she were lucky, a joint. Boyd probably wouldn’t share it anyway.

+++++“Ma’am, you ok?”

+++++Mildred looked up. Standing in front of her, in a frost free vest, was an old man. He had a thin grey beard and sparkling blue eyes. He sported a trucker cap that said “POW-MIA.” Mildred feigned a smile and shrugged.

+++++“Nowhere to go but down. That’s the only way I ever go.”

+++++“I hear you Ma’am.”

+++++“Yeah?”

+++++“Yeah. My pipes burst this morning. And plumbers? Not a single one answering their phones. This weather. They’re all on duty.”

+++++“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could help. I don’t even have enough to dry my clothes.”

+++++“Can I help?”

+++++“A quarter would do.”

+++++“Yes ma’am, but on one condition.”

+++++“Shoot.”

+++++“Just hold the door for me. I’ve got quite a few baskets of stinking, sopping garbage bags. Just about all I own. The flooding soaked everything. So, how about that door?”

+++++Mildred looked around for a doorstop or anything that would pass as a wedge. Nothing. She smiled.

+++++“Ok.”

+++++The old man peered inside the Laundromat. A light above a vending machine flickered. A handwritten sign on the machine said, “Out of Order,” followed by a crooked frowny face.

+++++“Quiet around here, huh ma’am?”

+++++“I usually have it to myself. The place is all yours.”

+++++Mildred tucked her hair, long and unwashed, underneath her knit cap and leaned against the door. The old man thanked her and went to his truck. His knees buckled as he strained under the weight of a basket. He continued on, heaving, basket after basket. Mildred smoked another cigarette and thought of what it would be like to put it out in Boyd’s eye, to watch it melt like a piece of chocolate in the sun.

+++++“Ma’am, you still there?”

+++++Mildred broke free from her trance. She was sad her cigarette was not in her husband’s eye.

+++++“Here’s your quarter, ma’am. I’ll be back in a little while. You take care if I don’t see ya.”

+++++Mildred clutched the quarter and went inside. She scanned the room, and froze. The washing machines were silent. The dryers were running. All of them. The old man hadn’t washed his clothes. He just put them straight in the dryers.

+++++That’s when she heard the thumps, like there were tennis balls in each load. Boom-boom boom. Boom-boom. She walked up to one dryer. The window on it had a red smear. Mildred opened the door, and there, mixed in with some old towels and sweat pants, was a detached hand. The bone and gristle sparkled in the fluorescent lighting. The wedding ring on the hand was, unmistakably, Boyd’s. Her stomach churned, and she could feel acid and juices and gobs of food rush up her esophagus and into her throat. Her head felt light. She titled this way, and that, and blackness filled her vision like dripping paint.

+++++Mildred awoke moments later, covered in vomit. The back of her head was swollen, and a smear of blood was on the table behind her. She did not remember fainting. Chunks of ginger ale soaked chicken nuggets soaked through her clothes. The dryers were still spinning, still thumping with Boyd. She pulled out her phone, dialed 911, and before she pressed the “send” button, she stopped. She started to laugh, and soon her laughs turned into a howl. The dryers continued to thump, and somewhere, in one of them, were Boyd’s eyes. She thought, once more, about what it would be like to put out a smoke in them. To listen to it sizzle into those glassy, stupid eyes. Mildred lit another cigarette and took a drag. She could taste the Menthol this time. She blew out a cloud, flicked an ash aside, and starting opening the dryer doors.

+++++One by one.

Surety

How does it feel to sink a blade into a person, like a chef might plunge a knife into freshly roasted meat? What is it like to tighten your grip and slowly, but firmly, shove it inside until the blade disappears into flesh? You’re not just pushing it, right now, though. You’re twisting it. You’re wondering if the blade, stuck in the middle of his back, is slicing through a lung, or if it has punctured the liver, and you’re strangely giddy off of the thought that somewhere, blood is flowing into the body cavity of the man, drowning his organs. You decide this isn’t enough, and you yank out the blade and sink it again, only this time you don’t take your time, and instead of twisting it, you quickly yank it out, pick another spot, and stab away. You’re playing “Whack an Organ,” and the prize is the game itself. You never imagined you would enjoy this.
+++++You hate the man, and I don’t blame you. Who could fault you? You were the one, standing in a dark alley, a month ago, soft drops of rain soaking into your jacket, watching as he slithered inside your wife. His arms were bigger than yours, and more defined, and that made you jealous as he grabbed her by her platinum blonde hair and rocked his hips into hers. The man closed his eyes and smiled, a wide, clean, triumphant smile, as if his pleasure derived not from her, but from the thought of you, sitting somewhere, all alone, waiting for her to come home. And the audacity of it. The blinds were up, and the curtains were pushed to the side.
+++++You gritted your teeth as you watched your wife, naked and beautiful and loathsome, get off the bed and casually walk to the bathroom. The man slid his jeans up, put a grey t-shirt over his chest, and stood still as she, that bitch, that cheating, filthy bitch, returned and slid his forest green rain coat over his shoulders. You placed a couple of recreational pain pills on your tongue, chewed them, and frowned. You were low on pain pills that day.
+++++That’s when you began to have fantasies. They took different forms. You thought about what it would be like to shove both of them out of the window, to hear the glass shatter and see bits of it stuck in their faces, his body still inside hers, and to see them go splat, doggy style, on the pavement. One time, when you were watching their routine, you closed your eyes and imagined that fall, and how their blood would slowly ooze from their bodies. You thought about putting on rain boots and dancing through the blood and leaving footprints on the sidewalk.
+++++Another time, you imagined yourself as a gunslinger who kicked open the door of their cheap hotel, unveiled a sawed off shotgun from a long, torn trench coat, and, while taking just a moment to revel in the horror in their eyes, turned everything from their necks up into smashed watermelon. You thought about it in slow motion: splotches of blood, detached eyeballs, chunks of brain and scalp and hair, bits of teeth, all in one, ugly splatter of gooey, human shrapnel.
+++++But you’re a good person, and you decided against killing her, and you decided against theatrics. That wouldn’t be classy, and you’re classy. You came up with a simple idea: Wait for the man to pass by in his forest green rain coat. It would be better to do it in the dark, and preferably, on a cloudy, rainy evening. Wait in the alley, step up from behind, stick the knife into his back, and retreat.
+++++Good job. Now you’re here, dragging his corpse out of the dimly lit sidewalk and into the alley. Why didn’t you retreat? You keep pulling at the body, and the man’s blood soaks through your gloves. It feels warm and sticky, and you don’t feel victorious anymore. You feel weak and afraid. You smile anyway.
+++++You kneel over the corpse, panting. The sound of the rain masks your breathing. What about the knife? Best to put it back in the sheath, you think, so you reach inside your pocket, but there’s something else. A crumpled wad of paper. You went to the doctor’s today to get a pain pill prescription. Lower back pain is an easy thing to lie about.
+++++Is your prescription in your pocket? You had better not lose it. You need it. Stay calm. Open up the crumpled medical report, take out your phone, and use the screen as a light. Blood pressure, ok. Slightly overweight. Typical. Stop smoking. Pain pills. Check. The usual notes, but then something else. Decreased depth perception and a probability of color blindness. Color blindness? Were you day dreaming when the doctor mentioned this? Probably. All you cared about were your pills.
+++++Color blindness. That’s the last thing that you think about before, from a nearby window, you hear her voice. Her moaning. Her pleasure. You know it’s her, right? Her moans are so loud, you can almost feel her pelvis throb against you.
+++++Don’t be an idiot. It’s your pelvis, which you have let rest upon the corpse. Frantically, your hands trembling, you shine your phone on the man’s coat, trying to get a better look, but in the darkness, with the soft glow of the screen lighting the body, and with the blood that’s gushed onto it, you still can’t tell if the coat is actually green. You try to flip the body over. Your strength, however, is gone. Of course it’s gone. That’s what happens when you knife someone to death. Didn’t you know that? Maybe you’d recognize his face, but maybe not. Faces don’t look the same when they’re dead.
+++++You look at the coat again under the light of your phone, but the battery dies, and there’s that sound again. You can still hear the bitch moaning. At least, you think that’s what it is.
+++++Run, you idiot. Run.