The strange hot and cold of basking in the aura of my wife’s radiance, snap out of it and be here, in this reptile’s hidey-hole. In my mind’s eye my wife’s pictures are along the left-hand wall. Ursa has women’s panties nailed to it. Nine pairs.
“Did he take a trophy from your wife? A memento of the rape?”
“Yes. Her panties.”
Something to remember. Stash it. Relive the thrill.
Ursa must not bring women home. If one nosy broad were to open his closet door while he was in the shower or fixing a midnight snack, she’d lose her marbles. Just looking for a man’s T-shirt to wear to bed, the afterglow of sex still intoxicating
, and then seeing rape trophies on display. He’d kill her. If he wasn’t planning on it anyways. He’d have to.
On the right hand wall of my wife’s closet there are some of her trinkets. Her elephant collection, some photographs. Her last pack of gum. Her lotion. My mouth fills with the ghostly taste of her after she’d chew that damned peppermint gum. Her favorite. Or how her skin was always a mixture of coconut and ginger. The softness of her lips. Her exhales along my cheek.
Ursa has a single shelf, a short piece of unattractive wood. On top of it, trinkets. A mishmash of bizarre items, probably taken in a fleeting moment of opportunity where he’d have to steal what was in front of him or nothing at all. A piece of costume jewelry. A wooden clothespin. A hair tie. The pink ceramic elephant I made my wife in my junior year art class.
Every electronic I can get torn from their cords and wires and dropped in the tub.
Stopper in the drain. Water turned on, slow. Knife to his space foam mattress. Gutted like it was a soldier standing next to a Bouncing Betty. Closet door torn off the hinges. Fat Sharpie marker drawing arrows along the wall to lead the authorities to the closet. And just because I’m a furious juvenile, I also draw huge dicks everywhere. Spurting and numerous, up and down the walls.
I check thoroughly through all his drawers and cabinets for other things of my wife’s. I tear through his hallway closet, his clothes. Dump out every container in his kitchen. Root through his fridge; pull up his carpet in huge tears. Turn over the furniture. Cut open pillows and cushions. Smash glasses and plates. I don’t find anything else.
Sit down at his computer and surf his bookmarks. Find his bank account. He’s auto-saved his login information and I open his account. He’s only got three thousand dollars in the bank. He must still have thousands from the blackmailing money somewhere else. Cash. I take his information to a toy store’s website. Order three grand in dolls. Guy dolls. Rush delivery.
Yank the computer out. Drop it in the tub.
Search the sides of his mattress, find a slit. I pull it apart; see wads of money right next to a cigar box. Grab the money, count it. Not nearly enough to add up to what he’s blackmailed. The cigar box. Grab it. Drop it on the bed. Burnt spoon, a package of needles a diabetic can buy for a few bucks at the corner drug store. A wad of heroin in a baggie. Cotton balls and sterile water. It’s all coming together now. He’s used the money to feed his addiction. So simple.
I pocket the money. Ursa doesn’t need it and Petticoat isn’t going to pay me now.
Take Ursa’s cordless phone in hand and before I leave I dial a number.
“Vincenti’s Pizza, home of the Taste Bud Burster, will this be delivery or carry-out?”
“Delivery.”
“Okay, what can I get for you?”
“Anchovie Taste Bud Burster. And put one of your dessert pizzas on it. Not separate. On it.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. I’m crazy like that.”
“Okay. What else?”
“That’s it.”
“May I have your telephone number?”
“No.”
“Well...I need to get that and an email address, so—”
“Just deliver it here and tell the driver I tip well.” I give him the address and hang up. Phone goes in the tub.
I leave, apartment door open. Elephant in my pocket, going back to my place to put it back with its friends. Then I will find him and peel him apart for days.
For days.