Big Cat Capers, Featuring Ace Chandler: Part II

Our hero was holding his trusty .38 to Possum’s wrinkled, drooping 96-year-old face when Francis and Johnny arrived. Ace’s headquarters was really just his garage, modified with a small radio, a police scanner and a makeshift waterboarding station.
    “Tell me what you know!” Ace yelled.
    “I don’t know anything, Ace,” Possum said. “I haven’t swung a possum since 1949. Not until just now at least.”
    “Horsefeathers!” Ace said. “I got your calling card.”
    Ace put down his gun and reached into his pocket, handed his prisoner a crumpled piece of paper. Possum looked over the note, and began laughing. “This is a fake,” he said. “I’m afraid someone’s trying to frame me.”
    “Oh, you’re all wet,” Ace said. “You’ve wanted me dead since ’19.”
    “It is true,” Possum admitted. “I did want you dead, but that was a long, long time ago. Truth is, when you went missing with that Russian broad, we thought you were already dead. We had a little party in honor of the occasion. But trust me, Ace: I have neither the lung capacity or the hip function to be a criminal anymore. For Chrissakes, look at me.”
    Possum made a fair point. In the sixty odd years Ace spent frozen in the Moscow Kremlin, his old nemeses were aging. And aging. And, in many cases, dying. Now, when he looked at Possum Jones, he didn’t see a despicable criminal, but a kind of sad- but mostly funny-looking old man.
    “Tell me this Possum,” Ace barked. “What do you Pussy Cats do in your hideout? Play friendly games of Monopoly?”
    “No,” Possum said. “We lost the car, the shoe and the thimble, so only a couple of us can play at a time, and that’s no fun. No, we mostly just talk about the weather, how kids these days bother us, and how the designated hitter rule is confusing and vaguely insulting to us--well, that, and we like to take pictures of ourselves with our faces pressed together, and smiling. Some of us like to give the peace sign, but I don’t. Then we like to put those pictures on Facebook with cute captions, and talk about how our hair looks.”
    “And what of your cronies? Muskrat? Nutria? The Cats, House- and Jungle-?”
    “Dead, nursing home, dead, wheelchair-bound--diabetes.”
    “Fair enough,” Ace said, defeat in his voice. “Untie him Francis. Johnny, you go to the bureau and grab my consolation whiskey.” Ace lit another cigarette, and moaned in pleasure as he took the first drag. “You sure Jungle Cat Baker’s pushing up daisies?”
    “Dead as a doornail, honest,” Possum said. “He had cancer... The pain, it got so bad, one day, we came home, and...”
    “He passed.”
    “Yeah, mauled to death by a panther.”
    “That’s ironic.”
    “Yeah, yeah it is. What’s with the interest in Baker?”
    “The fellows who are trying to rub me out. They used a lion.”
    “Hm.”
    “What?”
    “I said, ‘hm’” Possum said. “Fella came to my store a couple weeks ago, looking for a lion.”
    “What’d he look like, Possum?”
    “Well, he was your average Joe. He wore a striped shirt, a beret. He might have been an albino.”
    “Anything else? Anything out of the ordinary?”
    “Oh, yeah. He had a mustache.”
    Ace’s eyes lit up, when he saw Johnny bringing his delicious consolation whiskey. After a couple sips though, they lit up again, a little brighter than before. “Johnny, go put away my consolation whiskey. Bring me my accomplishment whiskey and fire up the car.
    “We’re going to pay a visit to ‘Mustache’ Duchamp.”


    Mustache Duchamp lived in an abandoned train car down near the quarry, emerging only to occasionally frighten the townspeople with his requests to be treated like a normal human being. Mothers would hold their children a little tighter when they saw “Ol Mustache” coming down the street, and gasp dramatically as he tipped his hat and offered up a “Good morning to you, ma’am.”
    It was near midnight when mustache heard a rapping at the door of his train car. Confused and pale with terror, or lack of pigment, Mustache slid open the train car door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
    Ace grabbed mustache by his stained, tattered collar. “You there, Mustache--what do you know about lions? Start singin’!”
    “Nothing,” Mustache said, “I swear. And please, don’t call me ‘Mustache!’ My name is Clarence.”
    “Yeah, well my man Possum here says different, see,” Ace said, nodding at the old man behind him. “You callin’ ‘im a liar?”
    “No!” Mustache said. “But what would I know about lions? I live in a train car!”
    “Time was, Mustache, folks that knew the most about lions lived in train cars!”
    Confused, Mustache shrugged. Ace wound up to sock Mustache in the mustache, but Possum caught his hand. “Ace--” he said. “This isn’t the man you’s looking for. Fellow we saw,” he continued, gesturing toward the possum on the end of the leash, “was whiter than this fellow--Isn’t that right, Darrell?”
    The possum nodded confidently.
    “Whiter than him?” Ace said incredulously. “No, no, that don’t add up. Look at this freak!”
    “Please,” Mustache pleaded, “My name is Musta--Clarence. My name is Clarence.”
    “Why should I believe you, Possum?” Ace said.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Possum said, gesturing at his possum. “But we know what we seen, and this ghostly creeper isn’t him.”
    Mustache started to demur to the “ghostly” crack, but Ace spoke over him.
    “I don’t know why,” he said, “But I believe you.
    “Sorry, Mustache.”

    “Let me ask you, Possum,” Ace said back at Headquarters. “Why are you such a help all of the sudden?”
    “Dunno,” Possum said. “I guess it’s just nice to have someone to talk to again, something to do. Like I said, most of the old gang is long dead. Mabel passed, must’ve been ten years ago, now. It’s just--it’s nice to have a friend, outside of Darren here.”
    When Possum ended his soliloquy, Ace was slumped on the couch snoring. Possum shook him awake.
    “...Guh?” Ace said. “Oh, hey Possum. You think you could identify that fellow if you saw him again?”
    “Sure,” Possum said.
    “Good. Go home and get some sleep. We’ve got some work to do tomorrow.”
    “Sounds good... friend.”
    “What? Oh yes, good, see you tomorrow.”

    The next morning, Ace had a burger for breakfast, some sliders for desert and grabbed a patty melt for the road. He tipped his hat to a woman as he stepped into the street outside of his house, and the woman grimaced because she was really a man with long hair. Ace shrugged his shoulders and kept on.
    Our hero arrived at the old folks’ home at a quarter past nine, and asked to see Possum Jones. The woman at the desk said, “Oh, you must mean Alfred,” she said. “He’s expecting you. It’s room 316.”
    Ace took the stairs up to the third floor, because he read that little things like that can sometimes be a big help when it comes to burning calories. On the last step, he stubbed his toe, and yelled, “Dammit!”
    When he looked up, a nun was shaking her head in disappointment.
  

    When Ace finally made it to room 316, he lit a cigarette and knocked on Possum’s door. It smelled a little like pee in there. Wait, no--a lot like pee. “Come on Possum,” Ace yelled. “We’ve got work to do.”
    Frustrated by the silence, Ace tried the door. It was unlocked.
    Possum was nowhere to be seen. The TV was on a golf tournament. The door to Darren’s cage was ajar. For a moment, Ace thought that, perhaps, Possum had forgotten their appointment and taken Darren for a stroll. He was pretty old, after all. Then he saw Darren’s leash on the counter next to the colorful bottles of pills, and--even more curiously--a note written in blood. Wait, no, that was just red ink.
    “Dear Ace, or random nursing home employee,” the note read. “I have kidnapped Alfred and his beloved possum, Darren. If you wish to see them alive again, have Ace Chandler--yes you, Ace--at the old typewriter factory at midnight. Bring no one. Actually, bring some gin. We have tonic and limes but no gin, so it’s like, what do we do with that, right? Okay, so bring gin. But no people. Cheers--the kidnapper.”
    Ace would guess later that Possum left his oxygen tank on. Because just after he finished reading the letter, as the nurse turned to him and told him, in stern tones, that he wasn’t allowed to smoke in there, the third floor of the Happy Hills Retirement home exploded in a prodigious blast.
   

Big Cat Capers, Featuring Ace Chandler: Part I

 Kablamo!
    The piano came from somewhere above and smashed against the pavement just behind our hero Ace Chandler, who then turned, considered the scattered ivory keys and the mangled, splintered wood. “Well,” Ace said, looking at Johnny. “That was queer.”
    The two shrugged, and continued on. “Oh yeah,” Ace sang, unaffected. “Gettin’ some burgers, gettin’ some burgers, gettin’ some burg-burg-burgers!” Ace continued his hamburger song, Johnny nodding along to the uncertain, frenetic melody, until our pair of heroes came to a cross street. Ace pushed the little button, muttering to himself, “Burgers, I love burgers, with cheese and onions, it tastes like America!”
    Ace’s song was finally interrupted by a loud crack and a “ping” sound. Looking up at the “Stop” sign, Johnny tapped our hero on the shoulder. “Uh, Ace,” he said. “Was that bullet hole there before?”
    “Dammit Johnny,” Ace said, doing a little hamburger dance now. “I can't go noticing every little bullet hole in every little stop sign. You've got eyes.”
    "But, my cataracts," Johnny demurred. "I... Never mind."
    When the two turned onto Dealey, and came face to face with a full-grown male African lion, Ace finally ceased in his pre-burger revelry. “I believe,” he told Johnny, as the two were wildly running from the lion that was chasing them, “That some skulduggery is afoot.”
    “What?” Johnny yelled, adjusting his hearing aid.
    The pair ducked into an alley. The lion walked past, confused and hungry-looking.
    Ace, breathing heavily now and coughing, pulled out a cigarette.
    “Cousin,” he said. “Someone’s trying to bump me off.”

    “Who could it be?” Francis said, back at Headquarters. “Prussian Pete? Doctor Blackwood? Those guys who sent you that note last week?”
    “Eureka!” Ace yelled.
    Indeed, the week before, a mysterious note had arrived in the mail. “Ace--we’re going to kill you,” it said. “Next week--probably sometime later in the week--maybe Wednesday, but definitely not on Tuesday or Monday. Also, probably not on the weekend. Okay, so probably between Wednesday and Friday--we’re going to kill you. (evilly) Hahahahahahaha.”
    Ace had forgotten about the note shortly thereafter, as Johnny and he were to meet for hamburgers, but, digging it from the trash bin in his office, he took note of the black cat scrawled on the bottom of the note.
    “The black cat,” Francis said. “The calling card of the Main Street Pussy Cats.”
    The Main Street Pussy Cats and our pleasant-smelling hero had a long history indeed. He had busted them twice for rum running in the 1920s, and once for cockfighting. 
    They were particularly fond of using animals as weapons. “Possum” Jones, the gang’s leader, got his name for his preferred method of combat, which was swinging possums, by the tail, at his opponent. It was much the same for “Muskrat” Peters, “Housecat” Jefferson and Possum’s cousin “Nutria” Jones. “A lion” Ace said, shaking his head. “It must have been old 'Jungle Cat' Baker, the no-good nogoodnik! Let's go, we're gonna catch us a tiger by the tail." 
   
    After stopping for hamburgers at Greasy Pete’s, our gang of crime fighters went across town to the Pussy Cats’ old hideout. Economic revitalization had turned what was once a seedy hotbed of opium, gambling and the most affordable hookers in town into a pristine bastion of glass office buildings and people who always wore pants--even still, Ace smelled treachery, and took to investigating.
    Using his trusty grappling hook, our hero ascended the side of the old tannery where the Pussy Cats used to hang out. Now the location of a graphic design studio, the townspeople watched Ace curiously as he made his way, step by step, up the front of the building. Finally arriving on the roof, Ace came face to face with an unkempt twenty-something wearing red, horned-rim glasses and smoking a cigarette. As a man who fought the reds for most of his waking life, Ace hated the young hipster immediately.
    “Huach” the kid said, as Ace kicked him in the stomach. “What do you know about the Main Street Pussy Cats! Where were you yesterday at five o’clock! You think you can get away with ruining Ace Chandler’s afternoon stroll!”
    “Wha-who-what” the kid said, spitting blood onto the gravel. “What are you talking about? I work here.”
    “Applesauce! That’s what they always say,” Ace said. “Which one are you? Muskrat? Possum? Housecat?”
    “This is a graphic design studio, dude” the hipster said. “I work here.”
    Ace thought about kicking him again, but the kid pulled out his wallet. “Look,” he said. “Look, this is my ID card.”
    “Oh,” our hero said, scratching his head. “Are you sure you’re not a Pussy Cat?”
    The kid looked up at him confused, and still shaken from the stomach-kicking.
    “Well, I guess I believe you, kid,” Ace said. “Good day.”
    As he turned to make his descent, Ace paused. “Hey kid,” he said.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “Can you butt me?”
    “What?”
    “Well don’t you speak English?! I want a fag.”
    “Fag?”
    “A cigarette! Now make with the ciggy, before I reintroduce my wingtips to your gut!”
    “Take the pack,” the kid said, and tossing them to Ace. “Just leave, please.”
    “Thanks kid,” Ace said. “Now you keep your nose clean.”



    Back on the ground, Ace lit one of the unfortunate hipster’s cigarettes. “It was a dead-end,” Ace told Johnny. “No, there are no Pussy Cats here. Just a graphic design studio, whatever the hell that is.”
    “Uh Ace,” Johnny said. “Look over there.”
    Across the street, tucked under a pet shop called “Pussy Cats! Pussy Cats!, was a small room whose sign read “Main St. Pussy Cats Hang Out,” with a large, illuminated arrow pointing to the front door.
    “Well I'll be,” Ace said, laughing. “I reckon it’s high time we got some answers.”

    Ace, Johnny and Francis were hiding under a pile of coats just outside the front door, when, several hours later, it swung open with a creak. Ace held a finger up as if to say, “Whoa--not yet,” or “I’m number one.”
    Whoever it was, he must have not noticed the six legs emerging from a curious pile of coats that hadn’t been there earlier, because he walked by undaunted. When the footsteps faded, when their pitter-patter was approaching the limits of audibility, our white toothed hero sprang into action. With his shoes in his hands, so as to not draw the attention of the trailed, he followed the man for around a half a mile. The man stopped suddenly, at a “Do Not Walk” sign, and Ace crept up behind.
    “Surprise!” Ace yelled, and the man turned.
    Just before the net sprang from Ace’s trusty net gun, he recognized the man’s face. It was Possum Jones, the ring leader and big cheese of the Pussy Cats.
    Possum, his oxygen tank and his trusty possum struggled against the netting, which made Ace laugh. Possum tried to swing his possum at Ace as he approached, but realizing that he hadn’t enough space or freedom to mount any effective possum beating, Possum set his possum down, defeated.
    “Looks like you’re all tangled up,” Ace said, wishing someone was around to hear his joke.
    “Ace Chandler,” Possum said. “You finally did it. You finally caught the Possum.”
    Ace gathered the entangled possums, and summoning his associates with his trusty duck whistle, began to drag them back to headquarters for a cool drink, some questioning and, as he told Possum, “a whole lotta’ waterboarding.”

Introducing Ace Chandler

Detective, patriot and problem drinker Ace Chandler spent his life fighting the evil onslaught of Nazis, Communists and the ever-elusive Commie-Nazis, whatever they are. But after a forgettable night with an unforgettable Russian woman posing as a slightly memorable American girl, Ace was left frozen in a block of ice in the Moscow Kremlin. Sixty years later, he was thawed out, alive and open for business. The only trouble is, there are no Nazis; there are no Commies; all that remains is a semi-comfortable suburban life, a dwindling group of elderly friends and a thirst for justice that won’t be sated, no matter how hard anyone tries.

Six Signs Your Girlfriend is Actually Lex Luthor

Oh, we've all been there. You meet a pretty girl, and, like those strippers that one time, you're pretty sure she likes you. You date a little, feel her up a couple times, maybe see her naked. That's cool. Then, your mind turns to the future, and you wonder, as all men do from time to time, is my girlfriend who she says, or is she evil scientist extraordinaire Lex Luthor?

Six simple questions to solve this oh-so-masculine quandary:

*Regardless of the flow of conversation, does she always brings up Superman, particularly how she hates him and wants to destroy him?

*Does she live in a nice apartment, or the Hall of Doom?

*Did she once break off the top of the Washington Monument and hurl it point first at Superman?

*Is she a scientist? A mad scientist, as it were?

*Is she bald?

*Does she have a penis that is also bald?

Erma

    Sitting on a stool in the barn one night, scrawling my picks for that week’s football games in a small notebook, the family cow, Erma, lowed loudly, cleared its throat and then spoke. “No, no,” she said, in response to my pen scratching. “Stafford is out. You want to take Cincinnati and the points.”
    “You can talk,” I said, stunned at first. “Cincy over Detroit, huh?”
    “You can bet on it,” Erma said.
    “I would,” I told Erma. “But Cincinnati’s playing Jacksonville this week.”
    Erma was visibly embarrassed. “But, I thought...”
    “Yeah, well you thought wrong,” I said. “Ya fuckin' idiot.”

Folding Chairs and You: A Primer

    Scientific studies have shown that nine out of every ten Americans owns a folding chair. Yet, unfortunately, very few of these Americans know exactly how to operate this curious doodad with any efficiency.
    One of the more arousing characteristics of the modern folding chair is its versatility--however, this is also the cause for a lot of confused grunts and frustrated head-scratching around households of every brand throughout the nation. Which is to say, a folding chair is a little like a kazoo: it’s hard to figure out initially, but once you do, man oh man, you’re in for one gem of a hoedown. (For more on how to operate your kazoo, consult my earlier piece, Kazoos and You: Squeaking Through the Postmodern Age).
    Upon purchasing a folding chair, you’ll want to inspect it: Does it have four legs? Is it furry and breathing? Is it meowing?
    If you answered “yes” to all of these questions, you’ve made the common rookie mistake of confusing a folding chair with a house cat. Don’t beat yourself up over it--this is a mistake we’ve all made at one time or another. If you sat on the cat, believing it to be a folding chair, simply discard the body in a nearby receptacle. If it is still alive, leave it outside and let it roam free, as nature intended.
    In order to avoid this mistake in the future, here are some basic differences between the house cat and the folding chair:

Cat: Animate
Chair: Inanimate

Cat: Furry and warm
Chair: Cold and metal

Cat: Occasionally meows
Chair: Occasionally creaks

Cat: Not good for sitting
Chair: Good for sitting

    Now, once you’ve purchased a folding chair, and inspected it to make sure it’s not a cat or some other animal, you’ll want to master the chair in its sitting mode. To do this, unfold the chair and set it down on an even surface. Then, simply place your buttocks in the seat part.
    Congratulations, you’ve taken the first step on your journey to becoming a folding chair connoisseur!
    Of course, this is only one of the myriad uses for the folding chair. The second-most popular use of the folding chair, according to the National Council on Folding Chairs, is as a weapon. Stand up, and fold the chair back up. Now, holding the legs in your hands, lift the chair over your head and swing it at whoever you think deserves a good folding chair bashing. If you notice a painful throbbing in your head after a few minutes, there’s a good chance you’re hitting yourself--another common rookie mistake. Simply bandage your wounds, and practice. If you haven’t mastered this step after a few weeks, you may need to consider taking lessons. Many YMCAs and Athletic Clubs offer classes in the art of hitting people with folding chairs, the number growing every day.
    Not all uses of the folding chair are violent. Some, like the “Talky Chair” routine for example, are quite funny. The “Talky Chair” can be used to delight relatives at a family reunion, attract women, or even console a mourning widow. Pull it off, and you’ll be the belle of the ball. Botch it, and you’ll just be another dickface who doesn’t know his way around a folding chair.
    To accomplish the “Talky Chair,” return your chair to sitting position. Now, grab the seat with one hand, the back with the other, and move them up and down, like a moving mouth. Now, simply talk in a funny, voice--to accomplish this, ask yourself, "What would a folding chair talk like?" Some, more seasoned crowds may demand refined “Talky Chair” material, but for most, the idea of a chair talking is enough to have them rolling.
    If, after you’ve mastered these three basic uses, you’re interested in learning more about folding chairs, vis a vis, how to get the most out of your folding chair, you may consider my extensive guidebooks on the following folding chair disciplines:

*The Folding Chair as a Projectile
*The Folding Chair as a Sex Partner; or Why You Shouldn’t Try To Have Sex With Your Folding Chair
*The Folding Chair as a Musical Instrument
*Cats & Folding Chairs: The Subtle Differences
*Blenders, and Other Things That Aren’t Folding Chairs

Jeff's Rebuttal

“The human body is a beautiful thing,” the pornographer said. “In our work, we strip away a literal and figural facade, and that process, in itself, is beautiful.” The pornographer pointed at his day’s subject, a buxom blond known best for her buxomness, named Kandi. “Look at Kandi here,” he said. “Look me in the eye and tell me her body isn’t beautiful.”
    The interviewer grinned and gave a thumbs up, as if to say, "Boing-oing-oing."
    “As I was saying,” said the pornographer. “We live in an age where violence is romanticized. Where any kid can turn on the TV and see images of dead bodies, of oppression and famine. And yet, we’re told that this,” he said, pointing again to Kandi’s naked body, “this is obscene!”
    “This pornographer makes a pretty good point,” the interviewer thought to himself.
    Then the fat, naked, hairy guy walked in.

Confusion at 45,000 Feet

Pilot (after dropping incendiary bombs): Bullseye, Jonesy. Those red bastards won’t be able to sprout so much as a patch of grass for the next twenty years.

Copilot: Not a patch of grass?

Pilot: Not a patch of grass.

Copilot (confused): And why’d you call them red?

Pilot (indignant): Because they’re communists, Jonesy, Jesus.

Copilot (more confused): Japan are communists?

Pilot: No, China. Damn Jonesy, you--

Copilot: Wait, but wasn’t that--

Pilot: Yes, Japan.

Copilot: But, wait, did they say to bomb Japan or China?

Pilot: China... Right?

Copilot: I think so, yeah, but that was Japan.

Pilot: Dammit, not again.

Copilot: The general’s gonna be pissed.

Pilot: Well no shit, Jonesy.

Copilot: Should we, uh--

Pilot: No, I’m not going back. We’ve gone too far.

Copilot: Yeah, I’m getting pretty hungry

Pilot: Whew, tell me about it. I could eat a horse.

Copilot: A horse?

Pilot: Yep, a horse.

Copilot: Wow, you are hungry. Chipotle?

Pilot: Yeah. Oh, and uh, if anyone asks, we bombed China.

Behind You! Story Nuggets II

The Links

The new golf course was pretty nice, but on the ninth hole, there was a nasty dog leg. We all looked at each other, and took a long puff from a our cigars as if to say, “Whoa, what’s up with the dog leg?”. Then Ron just picked it up and threw it in the woods with the rest of the dog.

Leviathan

I think blue whales are beautiful and magnificent animals, but God help them if they think they’re getting their slimy fins on my krill.

The Family Basement

For some reason when I was a kid, my family’s basement reminded me of a scary dungeon. Maybe it was because it was really dark down there, and there were all those skeletons.

 The SSandwich; or, A Friendly Gesture

I think it would be weird if Hitler did something nice for you one time, like bringing you a sandwich or something. Because then anytime everyone was ganging up on him and talking about how terrible he was, you’d want to join in. But the sandwich thing, that was really thoughtful.

Honest Mistake

Sometimes I hope earth is invaded by robots from another planet, because I always imagine robots would be fun to kill. You’re having a great old time just stabbing away at their robot torsos, and you’re feeling really heroic and then...Blood? Robots don’t bleed! Who is this?!

Dead Ringer

Tina got angry at me when I made a joke in the middle of the funeral. But, with her father’s mustache, I’m pretty sure everyone else got my “Weekend at Bernie’s” impression.

Lenka

I guess the first clue I had to Lenka’s true identity was the skull piles. I’d try to bring them up casually every once in a while, but she’d always change the subject to something else, like the drapes in the kitchen, or the motif of the living room, which always struck her as “gaudy.”
    “Hey, uh, Lenka,” I’d say. “What’s with the skull piles?”
    “God!” she’d yell. “You know, it’s not a crime for a girl to have a life of her own! You don’t own me!” and so forth, until I found myself stumbling over hurried apologies. “You’re right,” I’d say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
    But, as piles of human skulls sometimes will, the skull piles would weigh on my mind. We’d always find ourselves in the same argument again the next day.
    The skull piles weren’t the only thing. There were also all those blood-stained plastic sheets, and those newspaper clippings detailing gruesome stories of murder and cannibalism, that she kept in her lingerie drawer. Then there was that time she sat me down and said, “I need to talk to you.”
    I tuned her out, as something good was on television, but I’m pretty sure I heard the words, “intestines,” “streamers,” and “blood orgy.” When the commercials came on, I said, “So tell me again, what’s with the skull piles?” and she left the room in a huff.
    Why I didn’t leave her when I was 99.9 percent sure she routinely and viciously murdered strangers and feasted on their gooey insides, I don’t know*. When I did finally leave, she whispered goodbye and kissed me on the lips. It tasted like person.
    Even now I think about her. What she’s doing, who she’s eating. When the authorities are going to figure out her twisted game. And what was with all those skulls?
    (*The sex. I’m pretty sure it was the sex.)