It's a good night. As the Irish would say, a soft night, good for a stroll.
Instead of taking the front door, I detour through my drunken landlord's place. He's a swell enough fella, but he gets tanked on Jim Beam like clockwork. I pat his overweight beagle on the head as I exit the back
door. I prefer taking this detour because it puts me in the alley behind
Marco's, an upscale Italian restaurant still chugging away in the old
neighborhoods of Brooklyn.
It's ten-thirty, so they've been closed for a bit and old Marco is
making his staff sit down and have a meal before they go home. Really looks
after his folks. I poke my head in through the side kitchen door to fish out
three meatballs from a stockpot on the stove. Never locks his door. I don't have to worry about the sauce because of my gloves. I
pop one into my mouth, savoring the hundred year-old recipe, and roll the
others to the kittens that live under the dumpster.
I stop just short where the alley hits the street. It's still
quiet. A couple of wanna-be gangstas are hanging out on the corner to the left.
No affiliations. They're wearing Chuck Taylors, so that means they haven't
rolled in with the heavy hitters who have the funds to support Air Jordans.
Funny how much you can tell about a person by their shoes.
Looking over to the right, there's a young lady in heels walking
with an intoxicated gent. Probably a date. She's dressed to kill, with a fur
stole around her neck. Expensive hair, bouncing with each step. The guy keeps
making fumbling grabs at her anatomy. He isn't getting any tonight.
I slip around the alley entrance, bearing towards the couple. I
hear her voice bark a command, and he stumbles backward, hitting a parked Lincoln. It lights up and screams electronic murder. Nobody gives a shit, and
they're on the next block before it resets. I step up my pace.
They don't hear me until I'm right behind them. The drunkard gets
what feels like two kidney punches. He rounds with a half-closed fist, but
misses and pirouettes, corkscrews down to the ground. The lady doesn’t realize
what happened. She turns to berate the man, but he’s having a tough time
breathing with two holes punched in his lungs.
sees the blade, but doesn’t register its function. I snap her neck backwards,
exposing her smooth, pale throat. I carve a perfect arc. She recognizes what is
happening now, her big blue eyes batting their lashes at me in Morse code.
There is no help, sorry.
lean her against the brick wall, careful not to drop her. I sit down cross-legged face to face. Her mouth keeps opening and closing like a severed fish
head at the market by the pier. Lots of questions, but that’s not why I’m here.
watch the line of blood trickle out in random spots along the sliced curve.
Each drop works its way down her skin, beautiful garnets to go with her outfit.
As the drops connect, they form bigger ones, finding a new path downward,
driven by gravity and the pulsing of her dying heart. It’s a beautiful display.
Not one of my best, but the contrast with her pale skin and blue eyes really
makes this piece of art special. I’ll have to make a note to try this again on
a redhead—they have pale skin, sometimes freckles.
that would make a beautiful display. I need a new canvas, but it will have to
wait. Art is something crafted; it comes from the heart. And I have access to
the hearts of all New Yorkers to paint with.
13 O'Clock: The 2013 Halloween Horrorquest