Fuzzy Navel

KORK

THE LITTLE.32 BURPS in my hand and I hit what I’m aiming for. Latham’s arm. He moans, and Jack throws herself on him, as if that will prevent me from shooting him again.

What actually does prevent me from shooting again is the simple fact that my gun is empty. If Jack were thinking straight, rather than having an emotional breakdown, she could have taken that opportunity to charge me. It wouldn’t have done anything. I still would have overpowered her. But she could have at least tried.

I reload the gun, and the moment passes. I’m more than a little disappointed in Jack. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to an actual adversary, but this has all been cake so far. I’ve spent many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how she caught me. Now the answer is crystal clear.

She got lucky.

Anyone can get lucky. The fat kid scores the goal at the buzzer. The trailer trash wins the lottery. The dumb cop catches the brilliant killer.

This revelation makes me feel good. Damn good. I watch as Latham squirms on the sofa, Jack pressing an armchair cover to his wound, and I smile as big as my scarred face allows.

Dr. Panko, and the many headshrinkers who came before her, always tried to blame my unique outlook on a horrible upbringing. That’s just plain silly. Look at all of those people who were tortured and starved and sexually abused in the concentration camps during World War II. Did any of them become serial killers?

People don’t become predators because of their environment. Some are born predators. My family had some… social issues… and not because of some ongoing cycle of abuse. It’s in our genes. Dr. Panko might as well have been counseling a shark, trying to convince it that eating fish was wrong.

I know why I am the way I am. And I like it. Other human beings somehow connect and relate with each other on a level that I don’t. They care.

It makes them weak.

I have no such compulsions. I’m unrestrained by sentiment. I’ve never known guilt, or regret.

I’m no robot. I can laugh. I can cry. I can reason. But I lack the capacity to empathize with others. Watching Jack fawn over Latham has no more effect on me than watching a man build a house, or a bird eat a snail.

But shooting Latham. That has an effect. That makes me feel powerful. Full of life. Complete. It produces a physical response within me, an endorphin rush.

Is this what love is? Is this how Jack feels when she looks at her fiance?

I hope so. Because it will make taking that from her even sweeter.

I aim the gun.

“Move away from him, Jack.”

Jack stares at me, face awash with tears, eyes confrontational. I wonder if she’s going to make a move on me, decide in advance where I can shoot her without killing her. I’ll go for the right knee.

But she backs off, returning to her spot on the sofa. Loverboy has lost a lot of color, and the makeshift armrest cover bandage is soaked through with red.

“I bet right now you kinda wish you dated someone in a different profession,” I say to him.

It’s funny, but no one laughs. Tough crowd.

The oven buzzes. It’s the apple pie that I put in earlier. I’m anxious to try it. It’s the first pie I ever baked, as hard to believe as that might be.

“Would you like to help me check on the pie, Mom?” I ask. I grab the back of her chair and tug her into the kitchen, warning Jack that she’d better behave, or I’ll stick Mom’s head into the oven, on the heating element. I know from experience how much that hurts.

I set Mom up near the oven door, and we both peek inside. It smells great.

“Is it done?” I ask.

She nods. Earlier, while we were baking, she’d tried to connect with me by making small talk. Perhaps, after shooting her potential son-in-law, we’ve lost some of that earlier closeness.

I find some pot holders hanging up next to the sink – they say Home Sweet Home on the front – and take out the pie. It’s brown and bubbling and looks delicious. And hot. I bet this thing would cause some serious burns if it got thrown in someone’s face.

“If this tastes as good as it looks, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to bake another.”

Mom doesn’t seem happy with the thought. I leave the pie on the counter to cool, then drag her back into the living room. Jack and Latham are where I left them. I half hoped Jack would have hopped over to the front door and tried to get out. It would have been fun chasing her down again. But she just sits there, a whipped dog.

“I’ll pay you,” Jack says.

This surprises me. I didn’t expect the bargaining to begin so soon. At least, not before I did some breaking and cutting and burning.

“With what?” I ask. If I let her think I’m entertaining the notion, it will hurt Jack even more when I crush her hopes.

“We have some savings bonds. A few thousand dollars’ worth. And jewelry. An antique diamond necklace that my mother inherited from her mother.”

“And where is this cache of treasure?”

“In my bedroom. I can show you.”

Jack pushes herself up to a standing position, balancing on her taped feet. Now I understand. She has extra weapons in the bedroom. She’s hoping to grab one.

“Sit down,” I say. “That can wait. First let’s call up our friend Phin. Maybe he won’t be a limp dick like Casanova here.”

Jack sits, lets out a long breath. “I don’t know how to contact him.”

“Then we break one of Mom’s poor arthritic fingers for each minute you take.”

“I really don’t know. He doesn’t have a phone.”

I move behind Mom, put my hand over hers.

“I guess we’re not going to make any more pies,” I tell her.

“I don’t know how to find him!” Jack screams at me.

I decide to start small. The pinky. Then I hear a car come up the driveway. I glance out of Jack’s big bay window, facing the front yard, and see a Corvette pull up. I point the gun at Mom’s head.

“Stay quiet, or she dies,” I say.

I pull Mom toward the front door, then wait. There’s a knock.

“Jackie! You naked?”

Harry McGlade.

Jack begins to yell, but I’ve already got the door open, got the gun in Harry’s face.

“Aw, hell,” Harry says. “It’s Frankenbitch.”

I touch the barrel to Harry’s nose.

“Come on in. Join the party.”

Harry walks in. He’s as I remember him. Average height, a beer belly, three days’ growth of beard. He’s wearing black leather pants – yuck – and a yellow silk shirt with the top few buttons open, showing off a blanket of gray chest hair. He’s also wearing enough aftershave to be smelled from another zip code.

I stare down at his right hand, and am surprised to see it still attached. But closer scrutiny reveals it isn’t a real hand. It’s fake, prosthetic.

I pat Harry down, taking his keys, a cell phone, three condoms, and half a bottle of baby oil. Then I feel his artificial hand. The flesh is made of rubber, but there’s something solid underneath. I tug the covering off and look at the mechanism inside. A three-fingered metal claw, grafted to his wrist.

“You’re not even wearing a gun,” I say. “If I’m Frankenbitch, you must be Robodope.”

Again, no one laughs. Maybe this show needs a two-drink minimum.

“You have to give me the name of your plastic surgeon,” Harry says, “so I can buy him another drink.”

That warrants a kick in the balls. He doubles over. I pull him by his hair into the kitchen. I ran out of duct tape on Jack’s legs, but I have an idea that should work until I find some rope.

“Open up the robot hand,” I tell him, “and grab the refrigerator.”

Jack has one of those expensive double-door stainless steel fridges, and it’s big and solid. Harry does what I