Fuzzy Navel

6:54 P.M.
KORK

JACK’S BOYFRIEND LATHAM is kind of cute. Red hair, a strong chin, broad chest. He doesn’t cry out when I crack him in the nose with the butt of my revolver, and doesn’t beg for his life when I stick the business end under his chin.

“On the sofa, next to the old lady.”

He complies, but takes his time, fixing me with what he probably thinks is a cold stare. He’s about as menacing as a teddy bear. If he wanted to learn cold stares, he should have grown up in my family.

“When’s your girlfriend getting home?” I ask.

He reaches out, holds the woman’s hand. Doesn’t answer. Which pisses me off.

I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve killed, but I know I’ve killed men for annoying me less than Latham is doing right now. But I don’t want to do anything permanent until Jack gets home and is able to watch. So I settle for smacking him with the gun again.

I hit him pretty good, opening up a cut on his cheek, and he refuses to meet my eyes. So much for the tough guy act.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” I say.

“She told me nine.” His voice is soft, dull. “She’s on a case.”

I check my new watch. Heathrow didn’t allow watches. Or jewelry. Or makeup. Or bras. Or shoes. We had our unisex cotton pants and top, and slippers with flimsy rubber soles. I could understand them keeping security tight. A few of the women in there were crazy. But my minders confused insane with feeble-minded. Big mistake.

My watch tells me I have about two hours left before Jack arrives. I’m hungry. Maybe I can get Mom to serve me some of that stew she’s making. I also haven’t gotten fucked in forever. The last time was with my so-called husband, and he was as in effective in bed as he was at everything else. I eye Latham’s broad shoulders, trim waist, then move my eyes lower, to his crotch. I wonder if he is up for the job. I know from experience that a man sometimes has problems getting it up when a gun is jammed in his mouth.

But when they can manage, the sex is mind-blowing.

Later, I decide. One more thing that Jack can watch.

“Who else is hungry?” I ask.

I smile, not the easiest thing to do when you’ve lost most of the nerves and muscles in half of your face. Mom grimaces. Latham stares at the floor.

“Both of you, stand up. Slow and easy. If you move too fast, or if I get the feeling you aren’t going to behave, I’ll shoot your knees.”

They stand, and hero boyfriend puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. It’s touching, the warmth. Really. When the time comes, I don’t know which one I’ll kill first.

No need to think about that now. We have all night. And what a night it will be. These aren’t the only guests I’m inviting to this party. With some duct tape to keep everyone manageable, and some delivery pizza, we could keep this going for a few days.

First things first, Mom can serve some dinner. And I can warm loverboy up for our floor show later on. He looks to be the loyal type. Tough to break.

But I’ll break him. When I was growing up, Father used the stove for more than just cooking. He used it for punishment. Showed me up close and personal all the ways a stove can make a person scream.

And I’m more than happy to share the knowledge.