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This page updated: 01-Aug-2007 10:40 PM

 

The Mankiller of Poojegai and other stories

Stories ranging from 19th century Italy to modern Africa.

Crippen & Landru, August 2007

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Perfection (2006)

Prologue
 
              Sprawled along the sofa, a red bandana cinched across her mouth, her hands tightly tied behind her back, Marcy Fleming stared at the strawberry cupcake.
              Standing on the opposite side of the coffee table, he saw the terror in her blue eyes, and he recognized it.  He had felt it many times himself -- although not, of course, for years.  But seeing it in someone else, seeing it in poor Marcy, knowing that he had been the cause of it, was the cause of it, right here, right now, prompted a curious and surprisingly pleasant sensation at the base of his stomach.
              He had known there would be pleasure.  Mixed with business, to be sure.  Mixed with very serious business.  But he had definitely known there would be pleasure.
  He simply hadn't expected it to begin so early in the game.
              Well, well.  Live and learn.
              He held the cupcake daintily, with just the tips of his thumb and his slender first finger, the other fingers stiffly extended so as not to blemish the pristine white latex of his snug-fitting glove.
              He shook his head.  "Marcy, Marcy," he said reproachfully.  "This is a big no-no, honey. This is a catastrophe.  Do you know how many calories are crammed into this thing?   Hundreds of them, sweetie.  Thousands, maybe.  And think of all the carbs!”
              He raised the cupcake to his mouth, flicked away a tiny dollop of icing with his tongue.  He licked his lip, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.  "Hmm.  Cream icing.  I love cream icing, don't you?"
He chuckled.  "Well, golly. Who am I talking to?  Of course you do."  He nodded to the opened box lying on Marcy's coffee table, beside his black leather satchel.  "You've already scarfed down half a dozen of these little cuties, haven't you, hon?"
              Holding the cake firmly, and again using only the tips of the fingers, he gently pulled away the paper that clung, like pleated skin, to its side.  A few crumbs tumbled to the blue tarpaulin at his feet.  Glancing down, he saw that he'd left some creases in the plastic -- silly old Marcy had regained consciousness more quickly than he'd expected.
 He could take care of the creases later.  At the moment the cupcake demanded all his attention.  When he had tugged away most of the paper and it hung limply from the bottom of the cake like a miniature skirt, brown and clotted, he looked down at Marcy.  Her eyes were narrowed now.  The poor dear had no idea at all where this was heading.
              "But you've been doing it all wrong," he said.  "Now watch closely.  Here's the way it’s supposed to work."  He brought the cake to his mouth and took a delicate little bite, a teensy little nibble.  "Hmmm," he said.  Talking around the morsel of cake, he said, "You chew on it.  You savor it.  You appreciate it.  Capice?"
              He swallowed.  "Fabulous," he said.  Once again he licked his lips.  He smiled.  "But what you don't do, Marcy," he said, "is this."  Suddenly, brutally, flattening his hand against it, he shoved the entire cake into his mouth.  A clump of icing pattered to the tarp.
  On the sofa, Marcy flinched.
              "Umph," he said.  A chunk of cake shrapnelled from his mouth.
Have to pick that up later, he told himself.  DNA.  They can test saliva.
              "Ummph," he said.  "Orummph, glummph, glumph."  Again he swallowed.  Again he licked his lips. Again he smiled.  "Now honestly, sweetie, isn't that just a tiny bit disgusting?"
  Marcy merely stared.  Marcy didn't seem to be entering into the spirit of the thing.
              Carefully, he placed the piece of paper on the coffee table.  He would dispose of it later.
              "Okay," he said.  He looked down at Marcy and frowned.  "What do you top out at, Marcy?  About three hundred and twenty pounds?  Three forty?  And you're, what, about five foot four?"  He cocked his head. "Wouldn't you say, honey, honestly now, that your figure falls just a tad short of perfection?"
              Gracefully, he sank down into a squat and placed his gloved hands on the coffee table, palms flat.  His eyes now were even with hers.  Hers darted for a moment, left to right, looking for help, but of course there wasn't any help, not for Marcy.
              At last her glance met his again, and suddenly he experienced a tremendous fondness for her, a sense of gratitude that was deep and true and thrilling.  Dear, dear, sweet Marcy.
He smiled at her, engorged with affection.
Her chest rose as she took a deep breath, shuddered as she let it out.
              He leaned slightly forward.  "Marcy," he said, his voice soothing.  "Haven't you ever dreamed about it?  About perfection?  Haven't you ever looked into the mirror and wondered what it would be like?   To be slim and sleek and svelte?  To be the belle of the ball?  The cat's pajamas?  To have men get ravenous for you -- the way you get ravenous for a Little Debbie Snack Cake?  Or a Double Whopper With Cheese?  Or a pound of Tesler's Barbecued Pork Rinds?"
               Marcy's forehead puckered.  Confused, poor thing.
  He chuckled.  "Oh, sure.  I know all about the pork rinds.  And the Cheetos, Crunchy Style.  I know all about you, Marcy.  Everything.  The Chubby Hubby from Ben and Jerry's, the Bite-Sized Snickers."
              Above the red bandana, Marcy's eyes had grown wide again.
              "Of course I do," he said.  "You're my very first, Marcy.  And I want to make certain that I do everything..." he smiled "...perfectly."
              Unzipping the leather satchel, he said, "Perfection, Marcy.  Haven't you ever dreamed about it?"
              Marcy's eyes were darting again.
              He looked down into the satchel, looked up at Marcy, smiled once more.  "Sure you have," he said.  "Of course you have.  And I'm here to tell you, Marcy, that it's possible.  It's totally one hundred percent possible.  And I'm the person who's going to make it happen.  It'll take a while -- I won’t lie about that.  We'll be busy most of the night.  But come sun-up, come rosy-fingered dawn, we'll be all finished, you and I.  And by then -- Marcy, I give you my solemn promise, cross my heart, that by then you'll be absolutely perfect."
              Marcy's chest was rising and falling more quickly now.
              He reached into the satchel.  "Naturally,” he said, “the first thing we'll need is the anesthetic.”
              He slipped out the ball peen hammer, held it up, smiled proudly.
              Marcy made an awful fuss, wallowing and grunting and thumping against the sofa.
But that was all part of it, really.  Part of the fun.