Body Parts

There's a loud pounding on the hand-carved front door. Bradley Kane looks up from the Wall Street Journal.

"Hey, open up in there!" a muffled voice shouts over repeated thuds.

Brad crosses the lavishly decorated living room. He swings the door open and stares at the dark figure standing in the night shadows. The man is about twenty. Long, slicked-down hair surrounds a face that looks like a welder's fist. He wears grimy grease stained jeans, an armless, muscle-flaunting motorcycle jacket and big black biker-boots. Smoke curls from a short cigarette-butt clenched in lips that appear locked in a perpetual smirk. His crooked nose looks as if it's been broken several times. There's a smear of axle grease on one cheek. A shinny gold earring dangles from a cauliflower ear.

"S-up, Pops?" the slouched figure grunts, slowly curling both fists.

Brad steps back slightly, afraid the guy might start a fistfight if he answers the question wrong.

"Can I help you?" Brad asks cautiously.

The guy flexes his huge biceps as he drags on the cigarette. Puckering his lips, he blows a gray smoke cloud right into Brad's face.

Brad recoils, coughing.

"Name's Spike," the guy mumbles. "I'm Kandi's -- ah -- boyfriend. We got'a date."

Brad cringes. Spike flicks the cigarette butt away. Reluctantly, Brad steps aside. "Ah, I guess you can wait over there."

Spike's boot buckles clink as he tramps across the white plush-pile carpet. Brad looks at the trail of greasy footprints. The arm of a black leather sectional creaks as Spike sits. Brad returns to his armchair. For a minute, there's little but the sound of the Grandfather's clock ticking, their breathing and the occasional soft rustle of newspaper pages turning. Out of a corner of his eye, Brad spots Spike taking a half-crushed pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket pocket. He removes one and puts it between his puffy lips. There's a clink of a Zippo lighter.

"We don't smoke in this house," Brad says eyeing him.

Spike lights the cigarette anyway.

Brad's lips grow taut. "I said no smoking."

Spike blows another cloud toward where Brad is sitting. "Chill-out Pops. I ain't smokin'. Da cigarette is."

Brad's jawbone tightens.

Upstairs, Kandi Kane stands in a bedroom fit for a pampered princess. Kandi is a jaw-dropping, soul-jolting, visual venture. Her baby-blue eyes glide over her reflection in the full-length mirror. The snow-white cashmere sweater oozes softness. It's snug and chopped ultra-short. It displays the shape of her dome-like breasts to their very best. Doing a half-pirouette, she glances over her shoulder. The sliver of a charcoal micro-skirt has a waistline that dips deep and a hemline that rises to any occasion. Silver stiletto-healed shoes pull her leg muscles tight. Together, both flatter the perfect flare of her perfect ass. She smiles, mentally approving of the effect. "Why let a dumb-ass bra or panties spoil the picture?" she giggles softly.

Downstairs, Brad fidgets. There's a click. He watches Spike dig dirt from under his fingernails with a long-handled switchblade knife. Brad's glance rises from the knife and zeros in on the growing length of the cigarette's ash. He clears his throat. "Would you like an ashtray?"

"Never use 'em," Spike mumbles.

Brad watches as Spike takes the butt from his lips and holds it out. He parts his fingers and drops the half-smoked butt to the white carpet.

"Hey, that's a nine-thousand dollar carpet," Brad protests.

Both watch it smolder for a moment.

Brad tosses the paper aside and jumps up. "Are you trying to burn the house down?"

Spike shrugs. "How much you payin'?" Lifting his leg, Spike crushes the butt out with his boot.

"What sewer was Kandi in when she dug-up this dreg?" Brad mumbles to himself as he retakes his seat. There's a long and very uncomfortable pause. Each sporadic glance is like two mortal enemies sizing each other up.

"I don't suppose you work, do you?" Brad asks, breaking the silence.

Spike nods. "Yup, used cars."

"Do you repair them?"

"Nope. I steal 'em."

Brad winces. Good-gawd, my daughter's going out with a car thief. He stares as Spike puts a finger to one nostril and blows a wad of snot onto the leather sofa.

"Ah, pardon me, but would you like some Kleenex?"

"Never use 'em either." Spike picks a chunk of mucus from the other nostril, rolls it between his fingers and wipes the gob on the sofa. "We got 'a fuckin' chop-shop that can cut a fuckin' car down to the fuckin' frame in eight fuckin' minutes flat."

"Spare me the details," Brad says dully.

"Suit yourself, Pops."

Brad puts the Journal between his face and the enemy. The maze of stock quotes is but a blur. He bends a corner of the paper. Spike is toying with the switchblade while looking at him with a smug, self-satisfied grin. Spike's face melts into snippets of bygone images . . . Brad changing Kandi's diaper, baby Kandi taking her first wobbly baby-step, and Brad proudly teaching her how to ride a tricycle.

"Hey Pops?" Spike says suddenly.

His grating voice bursts the images like an exploding soap bubble. Brad lowers the paper and glares at him.

"My name is not Pops. It's Mister Kane."

"Whatever."

Spike hacks up a wad of green stuff, curls his tongue and spits it on the carpet. The Grandfather's clock ticks five times.

"Hey Pops."

Brad rolls his eyes. "Yes?"

"Got any dope around this dump?" Spike asks as casually as if asking for a toothpick.

"Sorry, fresh out," Brad says in a brusque voice. He looks back at the paper. An adorable image of Kandi at age four greets his eyes. On tiptoes, she kisses Brad's cheek, turns and bravely marches off for her first day at kindergarten.

There's a thud. Reality resurfaces. Spike has taken a boot off and is carving at his long toenails with that ominous switchblade. Brad's nostrils flare. Foot odor? At this distance?

Brad clears his throat. "Mind my asking where you're taking my daughter tonight?"

Spike looks up and winks. "We're in love. She's got the hots and I got a hell-of-a hard-on. So I'm gonna fuck her in the backseat of your new Mercedes. Got some keys?"

That word "fuck" boomerangs through Brad's brain cells. Teeth on edge, he forces himself to look at the newspaper. Somewhere deep in Brad's head, there's a deafening boom and a bolt of light so brilliant it's blinding. Blinking images follow, frozen in flash-time sequence. Raw lust boils in Spike's smirking face. Suddenly he attacks Kandi's youthful body with volcanic fury. She returns the assault with equal force. Lips grind against lips. Tongues battle tongues. Spike's hands slide up and down Kandi's soft curves, rising mounds and dipping valleys. Her hands drag across his naked tattooed chest and the huge bulge between his legs.

The next flash is green. A drug store checkout counter appears. Kandi, at age 12, beams as Brad pays for the package of Tampons that she proudly clutches to her chest.

There's another flash. This one's bright red, BLOOD RED. Ripples form then melt to the backseat of his Mercedes. Buttons are furiously unbuttoned. Zippers are unzipped. Clothes fly around the Mercedes in rapid-fire frenzy. Spike gazes at Kandi's springy up-tilted breasts. The image freezes on Spike's lusty grin. It's hungry, like a male lion about to tear into a kill.

Brad's lips tighten like rubber bands. Voices echo as if rising from a deep mysterious cave.

"Spread-em, ya fuckin' little cum-can," Spike's echoing voice growls. "You shaved your hot dripping snatch just for me, huh slut?"

"You're talking about my daughter!" Brad echoing voice shouts back. "You are talking about my little girl!"

Another red flash freezes Kandi's angelical features. Only her lips move. "Oh yes! Oh Spiky baby! You make my pussy so fucking hot. Fuck me Spiky-baby. Push that big cock in my hungry cunt. Fuck me baby, fuck me real hard."

Brad recoils, as if a warm wad of puke has just struck him in the face. His eyes clamp shut. "You daughter-stealing bastard," his voice growls through clenched teeth. "If you're so fuckin' horny, why pick on MY little girl? Go find a fish to fuck!"

Frozen in the next red flash is Spike's grimy face. "You want my big cock bad, don't ya slut?"

"Very bad," Kandi murmurs helplessly. "Fill me Spiky-baby. Stick your big luscious cock into me. I wanna have your baby, so fill me with your cum."

Brad's murmuring echoing voice says, "How dare this -- thing -- this -- thug, treat my beloved little girl like a common slut?"

Although toned in red, the images in Brad's head become clear, yet deformed, warped, as if viewed through a crystal vase. Spike's rough hand squeezes Kandi's perfectly formed breasts. His mouth grabs on to an engorged pink nipple. His three-day growth of beard chafes at Kandi's snow-white skin. He chews the nipple for a moment then spits it out as if it were a piece of unwanted gristle.

The next flash is green. Kandi, at age fourteen, is standing with her lovely and loving mother, both admiring her first training bra.

Another red flash: Spike's cock-tip slowly circling Kandi's heaving breast, leaving wet swaths of yellowish goo on her smooth skin.

A green flash: Kandi, wearing a cap and gown, hugs her high school diploma. That melts into an image of Brad proudly dancing with her at a post graduation party. Kandi looks up at Brad like a loving puppy.

Another red flash: Kandi looks at Spike's blue-veined cock with that same loving puppy look. "Suck me ya little cum-can," Spike's voice echoes. "C'mon you tight little snatch. Deep throat me!" Holding the long member in her hand, Kandi drops her head forward and slides his long cock into her mouth. There's a soft slurping sound as she begins to suck.

The image morphs into Spike's fist-like face. Kandi whimpers with girlish glee as Spike shoves his long cock into her with a long, deep and disgusting grunt.

Inside Bradley Kane, something snaps.

Brad calmly folds the Wall Street Journal and lays it on the coffee table. Crossing the room, he opens a drawer in a Louis the Fifteenth writing desk. His hand closes around a Smith and Wesson .45 caliber revolver. He says not a word.

Suddenly, Spike's head explodes like a watermelon hitting concrete. What's left collapses to the carpet with a thud.

For a moment, Brad stares at the corpse. The right half of the face is a bloody pulp. The left eye remains in tact. Brad feels gutted, stripped, like an empty shell. There MUST be something more. An idea strikes like a white-hot bolt of lightening. There is . . .

A look of high-purpose falls over Brad's distinguished features. Crouching down, he picks up Spike's body, slings it over his shoulder and hauls it into the spotless gourmet kitchen. There's an unmistakable sound of flesh thudding on wood as he dumps Spike's corpse on the large wooden island, kitchen center.

Brad opens a large drawer. One by one, he selects the tools and sets them out side-by-side in Bristol fashion. A large meat saw, a bone saw, a 25-inch boning knife, a curved skinning knife, and then a gleaming Porsche Cleaver. He holds the cleaver up, gazing at it like a jeweler apprizing a fine gemstone. The workmanship is extraordinary. It measures 16-inches overall with a 12-inch razor sharp extra wide blade. It's used for everything from slicing vegetables to splitting lobsters. Brad smiles to himself. "This'll do nicely," are his soft words.

The garage's florescent light buzzes and flickers on. A gleaming silver Mercedes roadster sits amidst smells of grass, gasoline and old oil. Brad pulls on waist-high fishing waders then dons a yellow rubber apron. From the tool-cupboard, he gathers a Craftsman saber saw and a DeWalt reciprocating saw. He pulls a yellow box of 60-gallon trash bags from a shelf. They're construction strength of course.

Back in the kitchen, Brad sets the two saws next to Spike's corpse. As he slides on elbow-length rubber gloves, he looks at the carcass. Thick gobs of blood drip onto the pinkish marble floor like oil leaking from a junked car engine. Brad is far from a man possessed. Something unidentifiable and far higher goads him forward. He takes off Spike's jacket and throws it into a corner. He leans toward the bloody face. What's left of Spike's mouth is stretched open like a gaping goldfish. One lifeless eye stares upward. Over the coppery smell of freshly pumped blood, Spike smells of garlic and last night's beer.

Brad quirks an eyebrow. "Let's see. Where to start?"

Suddenly Brad's arms ignite like the blue flame of a welder's torch. The DeWalt reciprocating saw roars. The sawing blade cuts through Spike's Adams apple then through the neck vertebrae in seconds. Neck flesh stretches then snaps. Spike's decapitated head tumbles to the floor with a crunching sound. Brad glances down. "Pick it up?" he whispers with no particular emphasis. "No, leave it for last. The brain is the most evil. The rest just goes along for the ride."

Several hefty whacks with the Porsche Cleaver sever the arms at the shoulders. Two more whacks slice through elbows. The hands are hacked off with similar ease. Brad whistles a soft tune as he shakes one of the trash bags open and stuffs the hunks of Spike into the black garbage bag.

In Brad's face, there is not a sign of horror, insanity or mania. Rather, what coats his distinguished features now is a solid expression of purpose -- high-purpose.

The curved skinning knife slices opens the chest. With a grinding buzz, the electric saber saw cuts through rib after bloody rib. With surgical precision, Brad cuts away lungs, intestines, the heart, liver, and other miscellaneous internal organs. He sweeps the sloppy mess into another black bag. A long length of bowel slides off the counter landing on the floor in a gooey heap. Lengthy strokes with the bone saw turn the thick femur bones, knees and lower legs into muscle-covered hunks. Unbuckling the biker-boots, Brad stuffs them in the bag with Spike's guts. There's a grating buzz as the saber saw cuts off the feet at the ankles.

As he shoves Spike's left leg into another garbage bag, it twitches slightly. He glances at Spike's decapitated head and chuckles softly. "Guess the rest of you hasn't quite gotten the message yet."

Brad's eyes swing back to his work. Pelvic bones present a larger problem. He rolls the corpse over. He positions the saber saw's blade between the leg stumps. With a flick of his thumb, the saw roars to life. With slight upward pressure, the blade penetrates denim, then digs into ass-flesh. Bloody bits of gore spatter as the saw blade grinds upward as it saws through flesh and denim. Suddenly, the saw jumps and bucks, chewing at thick pelvic bone. Gritting his teeth, Brad applies more pressure. The saw advances slowly, splitting Spike's ass right up the center.

The saw whirs to a stop. Brad glances at the bloody mass of bone and guts, then at the four bags of body parts, then at the trails of red boot prints marking a zigzagging course around the kitchen floor. His roving eyes pause on the pile of bowels, then flick to Spike's head then to a mislaid foot. All lay in pools of dark red coagulating blood.

Brad frowns. The wader's rubber boots thump as he paces around the grisly mess. "Not good enough," he says aloud. "Not good enough, not good enough." Suddenly he freezes in his tracks. He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, Christmas, 1996."

A moment later, he's back in the garage and climbing up a stepladder. He hefts a heavy box from a shelf. The large letters on the side read:

LEELAND'S ELECTRIC CHUM GRINDER

Turns baitfish into an effective chum slick in seconds!

Brad beams. "The cock must and will be first," he says with a trace of joy. Shouldering the box, he climbs down the ladder and tramps back to the kitchen.

Like a giddy child opening a present, he splits the packing tape with a bloody knife and hefts the gleaming silver machine from its box. It's about two-feet square, with a large circular intake on top and a smaller oval on the side to spit out the remains. He sets the chum grinder's outfall over the kitchen sink and plugs the cord into a wall socket.

He rolls the torso over. His eyes swing to Spike's cock. It's still in tact, erect, jutting out from the red gore-covered pelvis like a long thick stick. Brad laughs and glances down at Spike's severed head. "Guess your dick hasn't got the message either."

The curved skinning knife is the tool of choice. For a split-second, an image springs into Brad's psyche. It's of Spike's throbbing blue-veined cock being shoved into Kandi's welcoming pussy. He hears an echoing man-like groan. Brad cringes. Like in a nightmare, he's unable to move. In slow motion, gobs of Spike's cum spew out spattering Brad right in his face. One violent shake of his head and the image vanishes. Brad returns to the very urgent task with renewed vigor.

Boots squeak as he tramps across the kitchen. He picks up Spike's decapitated head from the floor. One jerk rips the shinny gold earring from Spike's earlobe. He tosses it up and down. Taking off a glove, he meticulously washes the earring and drops it into his pants pocket. Carefully, he positions the head on the granite countertop next to the sink, adjusting and aligning it so the one remaining eye can witness the destruction.

With a single jerk of the curved skinning knife, the cock and testicles are off. He clenches the bloody hunks in his gloved hand. The chum grinder's electric motor whirs.

Brad looks at the single unmoving eye. "Okay fucker. Take this."

Spike's cock spins violently as the chum grinder's intake swallows it whole and spits out red-white slime into the sink. Brad flips on the garbage disposal. Taking a dish sponge, he judiciously pushes the remains down the disposal. Brad smiles triumphantly then turns back to the island to finish the mission.

The chum grinder's motor labors slightly as its spinning blades consume Spike's arm and hand. The neck vertebrae are next. The 12-inch length of jagged bone rotates wildly as the grinder pulverizes it and spews out bloody goo into the sink. Pelvic bones and muscle tissue are hacked apart and follow the vertebrae. Inch by delightful inch, he feeds the long snake-like length of bowel into the machine. Taking a blood-red lung from a bag, he looks at it for a moment then shrugs. "Lung cancer," he mumbles as the bloody organ disappears down the intake hole.

Opening bag after bag, he feeds in muscle-covered femur bones, guts, organs, legs and knees. The disposal groans as he shoves down the sink-full of slop that resembles oxidized sludge. A thwap-thud-thawp-thud from the heavy cleaver cuts the spine into smaller pieces. The chum grinder growls and shakes as it devours each hunk.

"And now," Brad says, "the skull."

Brad positions the Craftsman's long saber saw blade above the bridge of Spike's nose.

"How about we split your personality?" Brad mumbles.

He bears down, hard. The saw vibrates as it bites into hard head bone. More downward pressure saws the skull right in half. Holding the top half over the chum grinder's intake, Brad vigorously shakes it. Gobs of chalk-white brain-matter tumble into the grinder's hungry mechanism. With one hard twist, the jawbone snaps free. The saw quickly reduces the rest of the skull to a mishmash of bits and pieces. Brad's hands scoop up the chunks emptying each handful into the chum grinder. It vibrates, obediently devouring each. The garbage disposal takes care of the rest.

Brad steps back and takes a deep satisfied breath. A rush, a rich and thick sense of building accomplishment pulses through Brad's veins.

He retrieves the mislaid foot and shoves it into the chum grinder, ankle first. He hums a tuneless tune as the spinning toes become a gooey mess flowing across the sink and down the drain. The disposal swallows it up, sentencing the last of Spike to a long rewarding life in the sewer.