Tales of Sin and Madness (29 page)

She lay on his bed, eyes half closed, the hand marks on her throat turning purple. Hartford turned away and headed into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of Sprite. He downed the drink in one noisy swallow. “Ah. That’s better. You want one, love?” he called, and laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Letting out a burp, Hartford strolled back into the bedroom to the dead hooker (Petula, she had told him her name was).

He grabbed her by the feet and dragged her off the bed. When her head landed on the carpet with a loud
thud
! Hartford cringed. “Damn!” he growled. He hoped he hadn’t ruined her cranium. That could fuck up his project. But he had read that the skull was a very hard object, so hopefully one knock wouldn’t do it much damage.

He continued shuffling backwards, out through the bedroom door and down the corridor.

His original plan had been to get her into the bathroom. It was completely tiled, plus he had the benefit of the bathtub. An altogether easier place to clean. But the damn whore had wanted to go into the bedroom. He didn’t think telling her he wanted to do it in the bathroom would’ve been a problem.

I think my biggest mistake was not saying yes when she asked me if we planned on taking a shower
.

And Hartford didn’t know what the hell she was talking about when, after he told her he didn’t want to have a shower, said, “Hey, I ain’t into scat and golden showers or none of that shit.” After that she kept insisting on going into the bedroom. Cozy and romantic, she had called it.

As he dragged her body into the bathroom, he vowed that next time he would take no shit and demand they go into the bathroom. This was his first time, so he still had a lot to learn. He could forgive himself this once.

He switched on the bathroom light. With a lot of effort, he got the body into the tub. Afterwards, he needed another glass of Sprite to cool down.

Never again will I let them persuade me
, he thought.
Too much hassle
.

The sex hadn’t been all that satisfying, anyway. She seemed to have had a swell old time, but he had come lifelessly and only by imagining what his project would look like finished.

Hartford left the kitchen and went into the garage. He pulled the light cord and a dim glow filled the muggy, airless room. He shuffled over to where he kept his newly bought tools, and took the hacksaw and hatchet.

He headed back to the bathroom. He placed the hacksaw on the tiled floor, and with the hatchet, began whacking into the hooker’s neck. Her body jumped with each chop, and Hartford found it hard to get a good steady whack. So he hopped into the bathtub and, kneeling, straddled her belly. It made the job easier, and by the time Hartford had reached her spinal cord, he was covered in blood, flesh, and specks of windpipe. And he was hot. If he learned nothing else tonight, he had found out what a tough job it was severing a head. So he turned on the shower as he replaced the hatchet with the hacksaw. He leaned backwards and let the lovely cool water wash over his head and body. Sufficiently cooled and cleaned, Hartford got into a position of good leverage, then started sawing back and forth against the chipped and bloody spinal cord.

After a strenuous ten minutes, Hartford finally snapped the spinal cord from the body. He fell back into the shower spray and let out a jubilant cry. Sure he was tired, but he had done it. He had taken the first step. He reached forward to the wet, gore-soaked body and picked up the head. Dark blood dripped from the sinewy stump. The hooker gaped at him, as if utterly stunned by her current condition. Hartford brought the head close and kissed its blood-caked lips.

Soon the head would be nothing but a bare skull, its top sliced off and the brain removed. But in the meantime, Hartford sat revelling in his accomplishment, laughing at his joy – and marvelling at the severed head.

Night two – the Two Toms

When Hartford spotted them on the corner, he let out a squeal of delight. Most of the street lamps had been smashed, but a few remained lit, and from the glare, he could see they were just what he was looking for. He pulled up alongside the two men and wound down his window. Hot, garbage-filled air blasted in.

“Hey there,” the one wearing the purple fedora said. He wandered over to the car. The other stayed back, smoking a cigarette and scouting the neighbourhood for potential customers and cops.

“You after a good time?” he said, leaning into the open window.

“Sure,” Hartford said. “The best.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place,” the man said, and giggled. “I’m the best in Queens. But you’re not a cop are you?”

“A cop? Hell no,” Hartford said.

“Well that’s good. I was hoping a cutie like you wasn’t no cop. That would’ve been a shame. So, what’re you after?”

“I want the works,” Hartford said, remembering what the hooker had said to him last night.

“Well that requires a lot of dough, baby.” The man straightened and looked over Hartford’s car. “You sure you can afford me?”

“Sure,” Hartford said. “I can afford both of you.”

“
Both
,” the man gasped. He scratched his black skin, a dubious look on his face. “Boy, how much cash have you got?”

“A thousand,” Hartford said and showed him a thick stack of notes.

“Well I’ll be,” the man said. “You just wait right there, honeybunch.”

Hartford watched as the dude with the purple fedora hurried over to the man smoking the cigarette. He spoke to him for a short time, then they both came over. “You’ve got yourself two of the finest loving that money can buy,” purple fedora said. They hopped in and slammed the door. “Ooh, it’s nice and cool in here,” purple fedora said.

In the rear-view mirror, Hartford could see the other man – solid and rather mean-looking. A complete contrast to the petite features of purple fedora.

“You’re right,” the man with the cigarette said. “He is cute.”

“So where’re we going?” purple fedora said. “To some great big penthouse in Manhattan?”

“Afraid not,” Hartford said. “A regular house in Newark.”

“Boy,” purple fedora said. “You sure are a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.”

Hartford laughed. “Yeah. But the best men are found in Queens.”

“Don’t you know it,” purple fedora giggled.

“You’re kinda quiet, aren’t ya?” Hartford said to the smoker.

The man wound down the window, tossed the cigarette stub out, then rolled the window back up. He shrugged.

“My boy here is just shy. But he’s real good. You’ll see. He can suck cock like you wouldn’t believe. So, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Just call me Ed.”

“Ed huh?” purple fedora said. “Okay.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Just call me Tom.”

“And what’s his? Dick or Harry?”

Tom laughed. “I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

* * *

Hartford was in the bathroom, naked and sticky with blood, gazing down at two severed heads. His arms were a little sore from the work last night, but he had powered through both men and had their heads off in less than two hours.

It had gone a lot smoother than it had the previous night. Both men had happily gone into the bathroom (this time Hartford had told them he wanted them all to have a shower first), and stripped without hesitation or question. And neither of the men had put up a fight when, all naked and in the bathtub, Hartford had plunged two kitchen knives into their throats. They hadn’t put up a fight because they weren’t at all expecting it. One moment Hartford was bending down to grab some (nonexistent) condoms from the pockets of his pants; the next each man had a wooden handle sticking out of his jugular.

It was as simple as that. And Hartford didn’t have to bother about performing any sexual acts. That sort of thing didn’t interest him in the slightest – he was much more excited about making his project.

Now came the real messy work.

He had found out last night just how messy stripping the skin off bodies was (cutting out the brain wasn’t exactly a charm, either). You not only had blood to contend with, but tissue, fat, and bone. Which, he had to be careful not to cut or chip in any way. He had been up all night and most of the morning working on the first part of his project. He then took a quick two-hour nap before spending the rest of the day stitching and sewing and cutting and fitting.

He had become somewhat proficient during that time, and would only get better.

So, with the razor-sharp scalpel clenched tightly in his hand, Hartford began slicing away the face of purple fedora.

* * *

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Hartford finished the second part of his project. And he was very proud of his work. It had taken him less time to make three, than it had to make just one. The smaller ones he had made exactly the same as the first. As for the larger one, he had to strip the skin off the two bodies, as per usual, but this time he had to go further. He had to cut out the ribcage from one of the men. And that proved to be awkward, time consuming, and oh so messy. By the end, he had seemingly endless coils of intestines, some fatty livers, a heart, kidney, black sticky things that Hartford guessed were lungs, a stomach, piles of flesh, and a whole lot of gooey muck that didn’t seem to be anything.

Hartford had vomited a few times from the rank stench, and he of course had to be careful when taking the ribcage out, as any damage to it would destroy the quality of the work, and he would have to go through it all again just to procure another ribcage. But it had all gone smoothly. And with his magic touch with a needle and thread, Hartford had constructed his best ever.

It was drawing near. His project was almost complete.

Night three – a Bass Act

Hartford was too worn out to drive all the way to New York that night. Working almost non-stop for two days and nights, with about two hours sleep, had taken its toll. However, he wanted to finish his project. He longed to see and feel it.

So he called two of his work mates (
ex work mates now
, Hartford thought with some bitterness) – Dave and Rochelle. Dave was his second cousin, a tall, lanky guy, funny, popular at work. Rochelle was attractive enough, was also popular at work, but not especially funny. They had been married for about two years now. He didn’t particularly like either one of them, but he had worked with them both for about five years, and Dave was a relative, so it was a sure bet they would come over. He figured it’d be a good time to settle some scores. Plus, he needed two spines.

“Hi Dave.”

“Hartford?”

“Yeah, of course it’s me. How are ya?”

“Yeah, fine. Ah, what’s up?”

“You busy tonight, buddy? You and Rochelle?”

There was murmuring in the background. Then: “Why?”

“I thought maybe you two would like to come over for some drinks. Talk about what happened. Words were said in the heat of the moment, things I’m sure we all regret. It would be nice if we could all make up. I don’t want my old job back or anything. I just thought we could settle things. Whaddya say?”

A long pause. Finally: “Ah, I guess. Okay. Sure. We’ll be over in an hour.”

“Super. See you then.”

* * *

Just over an hour later, Dave and Rochelle turned up. “Evening Hartford,” Dave said.

“It’s good to see you,” Rochelle said as she followed Dave into the house.

“Glad you both could make it. Come in and sit down.” Hartford led them into the lounge room. Dave and Rochelle took a seat on the sofa. “Drinks?”

“Please. I’ll have a whiskey. On the rocks.”

“And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Rochelle said.

Hartford nodded, hurried over to the drink cabinet and made the drinks. When he returned, Dave smiled up at him. “So. What’re you up to? Things going well?”

“Can’t complain. Been working on a new project, as a matter of fact. Top secret, though. So I’m keeping busy.”

“Is that so?” Dave said and took a sip of his drink.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got snacks in the kitchen. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Really, there’s no need,” Rochelle said.

“No, it’s my pleasure.” Hartford hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the frying pan. He then strolled back.

“Really, we’re not hun…” Dave started, but when he saw the pan raised in the air, he gasped.

Hartford brought the pan down hard, and it cracked Dave’s head with a loud
thong!

As Dave flopped to the floor, Rochelle screamed and dropped the glass of gin and tonic. “OHMYGOD!!” she cried, and that was the last utterance she ever spoke.

* * *

There were a few annoyances Hartford had to deal with. Namely, cleaning the small amount of blood that had soaked into the carpet, dragging the two bodies into the bathroom and taking off their clothes. He found these tasks menial and uninteresting. But, as he was too tired to bother about getting a prostitute, they were unavoidable.