But his pathology is a thousand times more savage...
He wants to be reborn, Clarice.
He will be reborn...
-H. Lecter
‘He’s eating Kyle’s face!’
I would’ve screamed for help if there was someone around to hear me. I would have called the cops had Kyle paid the phone bill, now Bill was eating his face for it. And eating it good, no sissy bites, no sir! Big chunks every time and hell can Bill chew like a piranha school.
- ‘Is he dead?’
No answer. Like talking to a cardboard cannibal.
Kyle hasn’t moved for a while now. Bill sucks his left eye out and chews on it. Eyeball juice squirts and drips from the edges of his mouth and he looks at me. Puke and pee cancel each other out and I run to the basement. Why? Beats me. To lock myself in a house with a psychopath, like in every psychopath movie. Movie writers tend to materialize axes, and shovels in basements, granted, but all there is in my basement is four concrete columns that hold the house in place, a light bulb with a string attached to it and a really fancy dentist chair where Bill made the sex regularly making it spin and tilt and vibrate and god knows what else --girls love it-- and I have to admit I was thinking about asking him to let me borrow it and show me some cool features sometime but now, it was just looking at it to comprehend that it was in that chair where Bill Murdock senior had pulled the last wisdom tooth of his career, in that chair where last week Jackie Lorens had given up her long nurtured flower to my anthropophagus roommate, in that dentist chair only item of the basement, I would be eaten.
Panic overcame me and I screamed, but through the spaces between the fear-struck-tight muscles in my upper body only shrieks came out. I started crying and flapping my arms and covering my mouth pointing aimlessly at the chair and pulling my hair and then the shrieks became squeaks and then I passed out. I heard a little voice humming on a silly beat that bats and doves fluttered to. Maybe the flapping of their wings made the humming voice. I’m not sure. Clouds and stars and I want to sing, because is so pretty, and I do, and it sounds so beautiful, creates a harmonious unison with the doves, but fucks up the bats’ sonar, and they go insane and they dive into doves and fly into one another and I start whirling and falling, sky, land, sky, land, and I feel nauseous, sky, land, sky, land…
I open my eyes and the chair is spinning five inches from my face. I puke. I fainted on the pedal.
‘God, where the hell is Bill?’
I listen carefully and I hear him still chomping on Kyle. I walk upstairs slowly and there is oblivious Bill attacking a leg. He severed it with his teeth and is enjoying it laying down, leaning on the limbless body face to the Imac that plays “little Johnnie jewel” by Television.
The visual effects are on.
Bill seems tame; He stares at the Macintosh swirls and splashes of color mostly when he’s stoned.
Kyle was a pothead. Lucky for me, I guess: Don’t smoke pot kids; it makes you tasty or psychopaths. And if you eat it, use brownies, or cookies, people are not food.
Kyle’s last words were “Thief if bowl fit”. He had already taken a couple of good blows to the face, and had lost one or three teeth. After those words, Bill suddenly snatched in one bite the shit out of Kyle’s windpipe. Blood squirted like a red Windex spray into the ceiling and then into the blinds, and then into the cat, staring from the couch now stained too, and then Bill just started taking bites off his face. Kyle shouldn’t have said “Fried or raw like that?” when Bill said “I’m going to eat your face”. He shouldn’t have agreed to play that Russian slapping hand game. Poor idiot, I’m invincible at the slapping hand game, it was like playing Russian roulette with Clint Eastwood, or electric world domination game with 007, a lost cause.
You see, the thing was like this:
Bill gets home. He’s actually happy and tosses Kyle a bag. Inside, there is an ounce of really sticky smelly skunky stuff. Kyle smiles big and grinds and packs the steam roller. Bill says he’s going to call mom, and picks up the wireless and the line is down. Then bill mutates into the incredible hulk. He spills his mind in a thousand fucks and you little pieces of fuck, and I gave you the money fucks. A good thousand, yes.
Kyle then was like we’re sorry, we were watching Blade Runner and smoking pot, and by the time we realized the bank was closed, here you can use my cell phone…. And Bill was like don’t fucking want to use your fucking phone, he wants to use the phone he paid for. And he says he’s going to fucking eat one of us, so we better decide now who will get to watch him stuff and bake an old roommate.
First we pointed each other, then we cried and got friendly and both offered to be eaten, then Bill said “cut this bullshit, draw some straws or something”; “we don’t have any”-said Kyle with this idiotic smile and I swear it was there when I knew he was going to get screwed. Bill looked at Kyle with icy eyes and in a futile attempt to cast away such scary gloom of a gaze the double-family size-moron goes like “I know, let’s play the slapping game”, I ok’d the idea, and Bill thought it would build up the frenzy, so it was perfect. So I Put both hands like a taco, in front of me, and let Kyle go at it and slap his last slaps for a whole thirty seconds, then I felt Bill’s stare and dodged his next slap.
Like he was supposed to, Kyle slapped his hands together in front of him as I slapped him for the remaining of the hour –a good three minutes, then Bill shoved him to the door, and said “I’m going to eat your fucking face”
Bill shoved the ribcage in the oven after stuffing it with raspberry jam and the half-ounce of dankness.
He said after we were finished eating, we needed to burn the house.
“U-huh” –I said and then for Bill’s amusement a bloodthirsty cat jumps at my neck. They say once they taste blood, they are berserkers for it. This feline is no exception, I can’t get it of my neck, I can’t get it off my face! Bill cheers and comes hacking at me with the electric knife. I bought the pink extension cord at the other end of it.
