Chapter 30

“Lost luggage.”
The killer stopped sawing. The blade of the saw stayed in place and Pussylips twitched his leg, feebly trying to shake it loose.
“What did you say?”
“Lost luggage. In Halifax. Left it at the station.”.
The killer’s heart began to pound.
“Is someobody watching it? Is somebody picking it up there?”
Pussylips didn’t say anything else. He was passed out.
“SHIT!”
The killer walked over to the firewood rack in the corner of the cabin.
He selected a sturdy stick of hardwood, held it firmly in his hand, and crinkled slowly onto the blue tarp where Pussylips sat unconscious, covered in blood and feces.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered, to nobody in particular.
He tried to picture a disturbing scene from his childhood, something to make him angry:
Mom was prostituting one time and slept with a black man, some lawyer in Kentville. Dad found out and went crazy.
Dad had his handgun pointed at Mom and was screaming at her that she “bedded a monkey!”
The killer was six years old. He tried to get between his parents.
Dad bent over and hoisted him up with one hand, holding him hard against his chest, then pressed the gun barrel against the killer’s temple and held it there.
Everyone in the house fell silent, even Mom. No one knew what would happen next.
Dad told Mom to lie down on the floor, take down her pants and spread her legs. He said if she didn’t, he would pull the trigger and kill his own little boy.
She did as she was told. Dad let the killer go and jumped on top of Mom, forcefully spreading her vagina with his fingers, inspecting her for some mystery evidence of a black man.
“Anything else I should know about?” the killer said, feeling his body go rigid with anger.
Pussylips declined to answer in the short time he was given.
The killer swung the stick of firewood, keeping his wrist loose and using the full momentum of the wood.
Clunk
He struck him and then struck him again. … clunk…
Pussylips face oozed. His head fell backward. His body began to shudder, all the muscles around the skeleton contracted hard, then fell loose again. Then his bowels dumped their final contents up the back of the chair, like a bucket.
His soul just left his body, the killer thought, staring at the diarrhea pooling on the tarp.