I pull the knife back then thrust it up into his chin. All six inches settle in his skull.
I catch a glint of moonlight off the sharpened blade through his open mouth, then with one quick motion, I pull the knife back out.
All I see are the whites of his eyes as he slouches over the middle console, motionless.
Slipping the blade back into its sheath and returning it to my waistband, my eyes wander to the dog in the backseat, still barking wildly and sending surges of anger throughout me. I want to kill it too, but before I can retrieve my revolver, a brilliant scenario plays out in my head—a dog eating its owner. I’ve read stories about it, and the idea fills me with a giddy, childlike wonder.
Depositing the revolver back in my pocket, I pull the knife out of my waistband as I turn the car off with my other gloved hand. Shutting his door, I creep around to the back passenger side door. I open it and quickly cut the leash before closing it again.
I wander back to my truck, a smile taking up my whole face as I imagine what it will be like for the man’s family to walk up on this scene, the dog snout-deep in the man’s guts. I imagine his family on the news, crying over their stupid little redneck fuck-up who was “going to make something of himself one day.” Please.
As I reach my Range Rover, the police light still spinning blue and red into the quiet night, my eyes drift back to the metal balls hanging from the back of his truck… those stupid fucking metal balls. I hate those fucking things.
“My Name is Human”—Highly Suspect
"How long's it been here?" I ask as we pull the Charger up behind a mess of county police vehicles taking up the side of a two-lane country road outside the city.
The road is completely closed, with police tape surrounding a jacked up Ford F-150. A swarm of cops and medical personnel stand around, presumably bullshitting as they await our arrival.
"Farmer called it in around noon. He'd seen it sitting here all morning," Tommy says as he groans his way out of the passenger side.
I meet him at the shoulder of the road, and we both duck under the police tape. A sergeant—Sergeant Callahan, his name tag reads—meets us behind the truck.
"How y'all doing?" he asks, extending a hand.
I shake it, and Tommy follows suit.
"Just another day in the life. What do we got here?" I ask.
"Well, first off, you noticing anything odd about this little scenario?" The sergeant motions to the truck.
I scan it, see nothing out of the ordinary, and my eyes meet his again. He's got a knowing look in his eye and a smile tugging at his lips.
"Look closer." He smiles.
I look again, scanning the truck more intently, and I can tell Tommy catches it as I do because he bursts into a wild fit of laughter. The other officers around the scene look at him judgingly, shaking their heads, and after seeing what I've just seen, I can understand why.
A set of balls—a human set of balls—sack, pubes, veins, and all, is tied with rope to a pair of metal balls that hang just below the tow hitch.
I crouch to look at them, my hands rubbing my cheeks and my head shaking slowly.
"That's got to be the funniest shit I ever seen right there." Tommy snorts, continuing to laugh obnoxiously loudly.
"We've got a murder victim in that truck, Detective," the sergeant says sternly, pointing toward the truck.
Tommy tilts his head, a smirk on his face and an easy look in his eyes. "Sergeant, with all due respect, go ahead and fuck yourself. You need us. We don't need you. Remember that." Tommy takes one last look at the balls with a chuckle before he walks to the driver's side door hanging wide open. "Hoooo shit, partner. You're gonna wanna see this mess."
As I meet him by the open door, the smell of ammonia hits me hard and forces me back a few steps. "Holy fuck,” is all I can manage.
"Yeah," Tommy responds. "Looks like somebody was trying to cover their tracks, huh?"
"You're not fucking kidding," I say, scanning the man slumped over in the driver's seat with his pants around his ankles and a patch of fatty tissue where his dick and balls should be. "You think he fucking used enough ammonia?"
"I think he wanted to be real damn sure." He nods toward a German shepherd lying limp beside its master's head, a gunshot wound to its stomach. "Think it had anything to do with the dog?"
"I think you're on to something."
“London Bridges”—Second Skin
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I pound the steering wheel as I speed down the country road to the nearest twenty-four-hour Walmart ten miles away, a bloody aftermath left in my wake.