The perfect wedding. The perfect honeymoon. The perfect husband. Everything about Tom was perfect – right up until the first time he hit me.

To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. We were home from our honeymoon for only two weeks when he “explained” the facts of life to me. As his wife, it was my duty to cook, clean, bring him his beer, his whiskey, his vodka and anything else he demanded. If I failed in any of these aspects – well, then I brought the consequences on myself, and I’d better not make any noise or complaint while he delivered them.

Sure, I could have left him. As an accomplished doctor and herpetologist actively researching the medicinal uses of snake venom, I didn’t need his financial support. But he didn’t believe in divorce; a wife’s sole purpose was to serve her husband. If she couldn’t fulfill that role, then it was her husband’s responsibility to “cleanse the gene pool” to prevent further contamination. Leaving him meant leaving the area – my life and my research. He wasn’t worth that.

I may not have been smart when I married him – but I was going to make up for it.

Planning his demise was easy. There are plenty of ways to eliminate an unwanted husband. Getting rid of the remains is the hard part. So I waited, played the part of the ideal wife and planned for my impending widowhood.

I’ll have to admit, I was a little nervous when the time finally came. I settled Tom into his favorite chair and let him kick back three vodkas and two whiskeys. Then I applied a little electricity to him and made my own modifications to the gene pool.

Once he’d cooled down a bit, I leveraged him onto the rolling butcher block for the short trip to my study. Normally, this was a room Tom avoided at all costs, but he wasn’t complaining tonight. As I rolled him in, my nerves were calmed by the sound of the soft slither of its occupants.

But I didn’t have any time for my snakes tonight. Instead, I turned toward the other side of the room, the one I'd mentally designated The Kitchen. Two large cages covered the entire wall. The one on the left was empty, but the cage on the right teemed with life. A hundred red eyes stared at me, watching for the slightest possibility of escape. White fur covered sleek bodies and naked tails twitched in nervous anticipation. The rats hadn’t eaten in several days and were ready for a rebellion.

I pushed Tom across the room and cut his clothes off him. Removing the front of the empty cage, I managed to roll his body into it. I secured the front, then checked it three more times just to make sure it was secure.

Then I opened the door between the cages.

A wave of white flooded the cage, surging over Tom’s naked body. I took a kind of perverse pleasure in watching them focus first on his softest parts, especially the part he was most proud of. As I’d planned, the rats were too hungry to be picky.

After a few minutes, I left the feasting hoard and went back to the living room. Taking his clothes, I carefully cut them into perfect squares and added the material to my quilting basket. The two squares with scorch marks I used to start a roaring fire in the woodstove.

I gave the rats a couple of hours with their meal. After all, Tom was a big guy. When I returned, they had exceeded my expectations. Full from their repast, rats slept soundly around the nearly-clean skeleton. They barely moved as I retrieved the bones.

Taking what was left into the kitchen, I boiled each piece in water to remove the remaining flesh and destroy any retrievable DNA. I saved the cooked meat for the rats – they deserved a special snack. As the bones cooled, I dropped them into a bucket of bleach.

Finally the hard part was over and the fun could begin. I dumped the bucket of bones on the kitchen table and spent the next hour putting together the skeleton. I always did enjoy a good jigsaw puzzle.

Once it was complete, I grabbed a drill, a small bit and some wire and connected everything together. I swelled with pride when put the final hook in the top of the skull and lifted Tom up. For the first time, he was perfect.

I carefully folded Tom into a large duffle bag and took him to work with me the next day. I was a little disappointed that nobody noticed when I swapped out my old plastic skeleton for my handcrafted one, but it was probably a good thing. Nobody even thought to mention it to the police when they came looking for him. I, the abandoned wife, received only a cursory questioning. I think it might have had something to do with inviting them into my study.

The rats are gone now, and with them the last bits of Tom. I was a little worried, but neither the rats nor the snakes they fed seemed to suffer any ill effects from their meal.

Tom is officially a missing person, so I filed for divorce yesterday. I don’t think he’ll mind.

No battle plan survives contact with the enemy
-Helmuth von Moltke the Elder

=====

Bradley Sutter was cruising the deserted coastal highway with the top down, enjoying a well-earned afternoon off. He was comfortably ahead in the polls, the fixers were continuing to send in more than enough money to keep him there, and the junior Senate seat of the State of California was as good as his. Election Day, everyone agreed, was merely a formality. Everything was going according to his carefully drafted battle plan.

Then, as Sutter downshifted into a blind curve, someone appeared in the road in front of him and bounced off his windshield.

If Sutter had taken time to think about it, he might have considered how nothing could wreck a political game plan quite like a broken windshield and a body in the street, recognized the situation for what it was, and made good his escape. As it was, he had not yet sold all his humanity and he couldn't recognize an ambush if one smacked him in the nose, and so he melted two perfectly straight lines of rubber into the blacktop and hurried back to inspect the damage.

A face from the past gazed up at Sutter with unseeing eyes.

There was no way to explain how the man on the ground could possibly be who he appeared to be; twenty-five years ago, Sutter had gone to considerable lengths to prevent him from ever crossing his path again. Yet here he was, Alex Maguire himself, a free man, lying crumpled on Highway 1 after having been run over by the same man who cold-heartedly sold him down the river half a lifetime ago.

The humanity that had pushed his foot to the brake now abandoned Sutter as he looked down at the man who had once been his partner. The fruits of his labors would wither on the vine if anyone ever found out about this accident, and his life would essentially be over if the identity of his victim ever came to light. There was only one solution, and being already on the coast road made it easy.

Sutter returned to his car, backed up to the scene of the accident, and popped the trunk. With some difficulty he manhandled Maguire’s unresponsive body inside. Thank God he’s not getting stiff yet, thought Sutter.

His cargo safely hidden in the trunk, Sutter drove onwards. Before long he arrived at a scenic rest area that perched on rocky cliffs high above a picturesque bay. It would make an ideal final resting place for an old friend. Sutter smiled as he parked near the edge; if he extended his afternoon excursion into a long weekend, he could go back to his old stomping grounds and call in a favor to get rid of the car. He would get away clean yet. Just like the old times.

He opened the trunk and pulled Maguire back out onto the ground. He turned to close the lid –

– and buckled as something hit the back of his knee. With all the grace of a toppled tree, Sutter fell forwards, clipped his head on the edge of the trunk lid and collapsed on the ground.

“Hello Brad,” said Maguire. “It’s been a long time.”

Sutter was shocked into silence, unable to even moan over the blinding pain in his forehead.

“Sorry I can’t stay to chat,” Maguire said as he calmly stepped on Sutter’s knee on the way to retrieving a lug wrench from the trunk. “I’m sure you appreciate the importance of keeping to a schedule –” he swung the heavy iron bar into Sutter’s ribs. “The importance of good planning –” THUD! “The importance of having a backup plan, you know, just in case something happens to get in the way of the first plan.” Maguire tossed the wrench back into the car and knelt down beside Sutter, who had by now regained his voice, but lost the ability to say anything intelligible. “I’m afraid I must go now. I have something to drop off. So long, my old friend.”

There was nothing Sutter could do to stop Maguire from picking him up under his arms and hoisting him over the edge.

"Oh. My. God."

Someone finally broke the horrific silence. They were crowded around in a circle staring at this thing, as if their collective will would make it disappear. The silence kept it from being real for a few moments, but when those three words were uttered, they started to panic.

"How did this happen?" "What did you DO!" "This is NOT my fault" "Who is going to get rid of this??" "What is Mom going to say?"

That last question silenced the five siblings, and they all looked towards the eldest.

"Oh no. It is not my job to clean up after you."

"Allan, you're the one she left in charge, so it's your fault if anything goes wrong."

"It is NOT!"

"Is SO!"

"It is NOT! I just walked in here!"

"Shut up you guys, we have to figure this out!"

"It's not my fault, so I don't have to do anything. I was just standing here making dinner. Charlie stole the knife from me."

"I just wanted to see it! And Charlotte was the one who started the fight, she just pushed me into the wall!"

"Well that's because you stole my doll, you idiot!"

"Charlie, Charlotte is a five years younger than you. You know better."

Ben knelt down next to the body, hugging it in his misery.

"Ben! No! You'll get blood all over yourself."

Allan picked up his youngest brother, who squirmed and screamed in an attempt to get free. Charlie and Charlotte were shouting at each other, but Sarah, with her apron still on from cooking, gazed at him with a fearful look.

"Allan, we're going to be in so much trouble."

"Not if she doesn't find out."

That stopped most of the squabble. Allan thought hard for a moment with four pairs of eyes watching him.

"Wiggley ran away a lot, didn't he?"

"...yes..."

"Well... if we take him out back to the forest, we can bury him and then clean up the kitchen."

Ben's lip started to tremble. The dog had been around for almost his entire life. Allan set Ben down and knelt to his level.

"Ben, if Mom asks you what happened to Wiggley, you have to say that he ran away, okay? Can you do that? We're in huge trouble if she finds out."

Ben scrunched up his nose and nodded tearfully. Allan stood up and pointed his long finger at Charlie.

"You. Get that knife."

Charlie started to open his mouth, stopping himself before the words came. The knife he had stolen from Sarah lay buried in the belly of the beast. Gulping, he approached the dog and grasped the handle of the long, silver weapon.

"Wait!" Sarah cried, "if you take that knife out now blood'll get everywhere!"

Charlotte was cowering in the corner next to the sink, away from the body. Charlie moved her aside so he could get a plastic bag from underneath. Allan rolled up his sleeves and helped Charlie manoeuvre the dog into the bag. They lifted it up and took it outside, Sarah guiding them around the mess.

"Sarah," Allan said, "You, Charlotte and Ben clean up the kitchen. We'll burn everything in the burning barrel after we're done."

Allan and Charlie loaded the bagged corpse into a wheelbarrow, and retrieved two shovels from the shed. They pushed their load across the wide driveway, down the slope and away from the house. The closer they got to the bluff of trees, the harder it got.

"We're going to have to carry him," Charlie said.

Allan grunted, and together they lifted Wiggley out of the wheelbarrow and carried him into the bluff. It was very lucky that they lived on a farm.They started to dig, slamming their shovels into rocks and roots.

"Charlie, can you get the knife out, now?"

Charlie sighed and opened the bag. He put his hand against Wiggley's belly and pulled out the knife. He wiped the bloodied blade on the grass in an effort to get it clean.

"What have you got there, son?"

Charlie and Allan froze. Charlie bent over the grass with the incriminating knife in his hand, Allan with his shovel deep in the earth, the body of the dog in its plastic garbage bag beside them. Neither he nor Charlie had heard their neighbour's approach.

"It was an accident--" "Please--" "They were fighting--" "Our mother--"

Mr. Brigham let out a chuckle.

"Yes, she would have a bit of a fit, wouldn't she?"

Allan and Charlie stared at the man in silence. Their mother was a fearsome woman, bitter and strong-willed after their father's death. This incident could be their necks for the next 10 years.

"I'll tell you what. You two mow my lawn and help out in the garden for the summer, and I'll keep my mouth shut, aye?"

Allan and Charlie couldn't believe their luck, and quickly agreed. Sarah, Charlotte and Ben were finished by the time they returned, stained old rags in a pile and an overpowering smell of bleach in the air. The burning barrel took care of the rags, a couple pair of socks, and Sarah's apron. They had a short funeral for Wiggley and said good-bye to the dog.

---------------------------------------------

Mrs. Langdon strode through the door the next day to see her children sitting quietly around the table. They had even cleaned up.

"All right, what's happened here?"

It is lying in front of me. My heart is pounding as I look at the body. My pulse is beating in my ears, in my finger tips. Oh my God, what have I done? The impact from my car was hard, too hard not to be fatal. A thousand excuses are whirling through my brain. It is so dark on these country roads, it is drizzling, I didn’t see her until it was too late. Just a moment ago I was driving back from work and then I heard the dull thump. Now I am here at the beginning of my driveway, and I am crouched over a corpse with my heart beating in my throat.

I sit back on my heels now, and fix my gaze anywhere but on the broken being in front of me. I try not to think of how young she is, how she will be missed. I am trying so hard not to think of her eyes, still opened wide in terror staring out blankly at the grey night. I stand up and pace around to the back of the car. I need to concentrate on what needs to be done. I need to rest for a minute, to clear my mind. I am breathing slowly now, and I can focus my thoughts on the body. It is best to think of it this way, merely as a body. Just a body and I just need to figure out how to get rid of it. My stomach is heaving, and I give in and am sick in the long grass on the side of the road. Wiping my mouth, I steel myself and open the boot. I have a blanket in here, I know I do. I rummage frantically around the junk in my boot. Shopping bags, kids’ shoes and socks, a doll, a dog toy; and finally a picnic blanket. A plastic backed picnic blanket.

Her body is broken, it is bleeding. I wrap the blanket around it. I can’t bear to wrap her in plastic; it is too cold and callous. I place the fluffy felt of the blanket against her, and lift her into my arms. She is so heavy I lose my breath, and very nearly my nerve. Will she even fit into the boot? I am sweating so much despite the chill in the air that the plastic of the picnic blanket sticks to my face and peels off painfully as I lower her in. It is snug, but she fits. Her makeshift shroud folds back awkwardly to reveal her face one more time. Tears sting my eyes as I yank it back up, and then empty my stomach into the long grass once more.

I close my eyes hard against the tears, and slam the lid of the boot against the terrible reality that is unfolding before me tonight. On shaky legs, I stumble back to the driver’s door and slump into my seat. I lean my head back as far as it can go, and now I am crying. I am howling my misfortune to the moon. I shout my grief into the night surrounding me; my grief for my own pain, for the life I have taken, and for the terrible thing I am about to do. I will bury her. I drive the car up the long driveway in a fog of grief and fear. I will bury her here, out back. It seems like the best place. I let myself into the house, thank the babysitter, and go to check on my sleeping daughter. The sight of her brings the tears again, and so I turn away from her door and focus my thoughts on the task at hand. I will need a good strong shovel.

It takes me more than an hour until I finally have a grave big enough for her. It is in the far back corner of my acreage, behind a huge shed. No one will look here. I go back to my car and somehow make myself open the boot. There is a sweet smell that makes my nostrils curl with distaste. I don’t run, though I want to with all my soul. I bend and take the weight of her in my arms again. It seems that days pass as I stagger to that grave, weeping silently and sending up prayers for the body in my arms. I lay her down as gently as I can, and sprinkle a handful of soil over the blanket. Dust to dust.

I go inside and sit at the dining room table until the sun comes up. I float to the kitchen inside a haze, and fix myself a cup of strong coffee. I can’t fool myself. I know there will be questions. I just need to come up with the right answers, not to flinch, not to doubt myself for a second. I have spent the hours of darkness trying to convince myself that my lies are true. She is not lying in my backyard, being consumed by the very earth as I sit and wait for my day to begin. The cold truth sits in my stomach like a brick. She is there. I can very nearly feel her there. A sound on the stair case has me smiling my false smile. My little daughter enters the kitchen looking worried.

“Mom, where is my doggy? I wanna play ball with her.”

The lie tastes bitter, like blood on my tongue, “Mommy’s so sorry honey, but it looks like Bella ran away.”

“It’s not my fault.” George whined.

“So?” Dan answered. “Spenser is still dead. The question isn’t one of fault, but rather who the authorities will decide to blame for his death.”

“I told him not to drink the stuff in that scotch bottle.”

“It’s too bad that you decided to store your essence of magic mushroom in a scotch bottle. It’s too bad that Spenser is such a moron that he ignored you and chugged what he thought was expensive booze. It is really too bad that you wouldn’t know a magic mushroom if it jumped out and bit you, so you made essence of death’s head instead. The reality is that Spenser is dead.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We get rid of the evidence.”

“Where?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? There are the classic methods – burial in a shallow grave, dumping him in a river, chopping him into bits and scattering his parts –“

“I saw a movie,” interrupted George, “where they dissolved a body in a vat of acid.”

“Do you have a vat of acid?”

“No, where would I get a vat of acid?”

“I guess the acid is out.”

“What are we going to do?”

“What do we have to work with? Do you have any tools – shovels, saws, axes?”

“I’m a programming major, what would I do with tools? I could borrow some from my cousin Sean. He’s a landscaper.”

“And what do you think Sean will think if you ask to borrow his tools at…” Dan looked at his watch. “1:39 AM?”

“He doesn’t like me anyway. Not since I busted his wheelbarrow bringing a keg in for a party.”

“So he would probably say “No” in any case.”

“Naw, he would say f-“

“I get the picture. So what do we have?”

“We have what you see in our room. There’s my car, but it doesn’t work very well. Spenser’s car is better. Maybe we could fake a will and have him leave it to me.”

“No forging wills. But we could use his car”

“So we load him into his car and drive him out somewhere and leave him.”

“We can’t just leave him, or they will do an autopsy and find the poison.”

“So, we crash his car - no problem.”

“Pass me that blanket and we‘ll wrap him up and carry him downstairs.”

“Why don’t we just carry him downstairs and tell people that he’s passed out. It will be just like Weekend at Bernie’s”

“You’re right. Oh, and give me that blasted bottle.”

“What do want that for?”

“Do you want someone else coming in and taking a swig?”

“It depends on who it is.”

“Just give me the bottle and grab hold.”

With some effort they got Spenser’s earthly remains down the stairs to his car. Fortunately he never went anywhere without the keys to his brand new, canary yellow Mustang.

“Put him in the passenger seat. That’s what we would do if he were really drunk. And we don’t know who is watching.”

“Right.” gasped Dan, “You get the door, I’ll hold him for the moment.” The weight of the body almost pushed him to the pavement, but they managed to get it into the passenger seat and buckled in.

“I’ll drive. I’ve always wanted to drive this car.” George slid behind the wheel. “Are you sure we can’t fake a will?” Dan glared at him.

“Just kidding. Here are my keys. Follow me in my car.” Without waiting for an answer George revved the engine of the Mustang and peeled out of the parking lot. Dan looked at George’s ancient Nissan with distaste, but carefully climbed in and after several attempts got the car to start. He followed the bright yellow car at the best speed the Nissan could manage. To his horror George pulled into an all night gas station.

“What are you doing?” He hissed when he had pulled up to the pumps.

“We need gas. Fill my car up too. Do you want a Coke?”

”Just who is paying for this? I don’t have any money on me and you are always broke.”

”He is.” George flashed a thick wad of twenties. “It isn’t like he needs it anymore.” Dan opened his mouth to argue but sighed instead.

“Just hurry.”

Once again George took off leaving rubber streaks on the asphalt. He led the way to a back road notorious for late night racing.

“Let’s move him to the other seat.”

“He’s getting stiff.”

“So, pull harder.”

“Jam his foot on the gas.”

“OW, he ran over my foot.”

”Look at him go.”

There was a tremendous crash and screech of metal.

“Let’s take a look.” Dan rolled his eyes, but got into the Nissan.

Up close they could see the twisted metal that used to be a sports car. George and Dan got out of the car and walked toward the car.

“It’s supposed to explode. That’s why I filled it with gas.”

“That’s just the movies. Hey, don’t throw that match!”

The explosion threw them across the road.

“It’s not my fault.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Groaning in the ditch, they could hear the sirens approaching.

"George! George, come here!"
Recognising the voice as that of his wife Claire, George put aside his crossword with a sigh and walked over to the French windows, glancing out into the garden.

Seeing his wife's figure by the murky pond he hurried over to her, alerted by her worried tone. As she turned around he was shocked to see tears trickling down her face. "Claire, sweetie! What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.
"It's Bernard" she said, her voice shaking. "He's...he's dead"

George felt that he should know who Bernard was, given that his demise was causing his wife so much distress, but no memory of any Bernard was coming to mind. Praying fervently that Bernard was not a relative of Claire's, he enquired timidly, "Er...and Bernard is...?" From the look he received he feared that Bernard must be at least the name of Claire's favourite uncle, or possibly even her father (oh God! What was Claire's dad called?) but her next sentence reprieved him.

"It's Becky's goldfish!"
"Becky has a goldfish?"
"Becky HAD a goldfish. Remember? She won him at the carnival last year?"
The relief George was feeling that Bernard had turned out to be a mere goldfish was rapidly giving way to confusion over his wife's tears. She wasn't normally this emotional. "So, er..." he began, "were you very attached to this...goldfish, then?"
"Well, no," Claire replied, "but Becky was! She was skipping round for days after she won him...she was so happy...and now he's dead." She held up her hand and George noticed for the first time the plastic bag clutched within it, containing one -unmistakeably dead - goldfish.

"George, we can't tell her! She's only four years old...I don't want to be explaining death to her at that age. She's bound to ask whether goldfish go to heaven and, well...they don't."
"But, sweetie...won't she notice, you know, the lack of goldfish?"
"No, she won't. We'll get her another goldfish…one who looks exactly the same. She won't notice."
Experience had told George not to argue with his wife when she was this determined. He followed her as she strode towards the house. It was only as they approached the bathroom that he realised where Bernard was headed - straight into the sewers. He watched from the door as Claire approached the toilet, holding the plastic bag aloft. She was about to let go when a little voice came from behind George. "Mummy, what are you doing?"

Claire whirled around, hiding the bag behind her back as she did so, but evidently not quickly enough. "Mummy, what's that? What's the orange thing in the bag?"
"It's…it's…"
George chipped hastily in. "It's a carrot, Becks. Mummy's got a carrot in a bag". To Becky's four-year-old mind this clearly made adequate sense, as she looked thoughtful for a moment then lost interest and moved away. A look of relief mixed with amusement on her face, Claire mouthed to George, "A carrot in a bag??"
He shrugged. "I'd like to see you come up with something better".

The immediate risk of discovery over, the couple's attention turned to the problem of disposal of the body. Becky was still too close by to risk the lavatory again, and if they simply threw it away there was every chance that she - or the family cat, Whiskers - would discover it.

"Why not just throw him back in the pond?" George suggested, flinching immediately afterwards at the expression on Claire's face.
"We can't throw him in the pond! Goldfish float!!"
"OK, so…maybe we could weigh him down with something?"
"No, no…too risky…he might float up later. I tell you what…we'll bury him. In the garden"

Having fetched a shovel from the shed, it didn't take George long to dig a goldfish-sized hole in a secluded corner of the garden. Glancing frequently over her shoulder to ensure that Becky was not looking out of her bedroom window, Claire laid the plastic bag tenderly in the grave. Just as George was about to cover it with earth, however, a voice rang out, causing him to jump and Claire to let out a squeak of shock.

The couple's 12 year old son, Robbie, sauntered out of the nearby shadowy area under the huge oak tree. "Whatcha doing?" he enquired, in a voice that suggested he could not care less about the answer to the question. However, as he looked more closely at the contents of the hole, his voice took on a tone of greater interest. "Hey! Is that Bernard?"

"Yes, sweetie, it is," Claire replied. "But don't tell Becks…you know how she gets…we're going to get her a new one, she won't even have to know."

Robbie thought for a second, then grinned. "What's it worth?"
"Excuse me?"
"How much? My silence has a price, you know. If you don't want Becky to know…it's gonna cost you."
Claire began to make an indistinct noise, but was interrupted by George. A combination of exasperation, anger at Robbie and desire to return to his unfinished crossword had provoked a strong reaction in him, and he seized his son by the hair. "You. Will. Not. Tell. Her," he grunted. "Or I'll…"
Robbie would never know, however, what his father planned to do to him, because the scene was interrupted. Becky stood behind them, having come down from the house to see what was going on.
"Daddy, what are you doing to Robbie?" A pause. "And…what's Mummy's carrot doing in that hole?"

Killing him was the easy part, but what to do with the body? Simple, if you thought it out before you did the deed. I took his lifeless body, wrapped it up in a painter’s tarp and then placed him in the nine degree below zero freezer. While I was turning him in to a popsicle, I went and borrowed… well, stole a medium sized gas powered wood chipper. I figured the chipper would do the job and more importantly it would fit perfectly on the stern of my twenty-six foot Boston Whaler.

Later the next evening, I placed the “borrowed” wood chipper into the back of my truck along with my fishing gear, beer and the big Igloo Cooler. With the truck loaded I went to retrieve my “body pop” from the freezer. I took the cooler in and placed a layer of ice on the bottom then I placed the body onto the ice. I had to work the body into the cooler a little bit but I got him to fit and then packed ice around it to keep it nice and cold.

From the freezer I drove down to the marina. All I needed to do was drive the boat around to the deserted boat dock. Once alongside the dock, loading the wood chipper was made easy. The gunwale of the boat was just a little below the deck of the dock. I slowly lowered the wood chipper onto the deck of the boat and tied it down. Loading the rest of the fishing gear and the beer was easy. The final thing to load was the Igloo Cooler.

With all my stuff stowed, I put on my boots and raingear and fired up the boat engines. It was a nice slow twenty minute ride from the dock at the marina to the channel where I could head out at full speed. Once I got to the channel, I checked to make sure all was tied down well and then pushed the engines to full. The ocean was calm, only about two to three foot swells. I headed west and drove until I was fifteen miles out. I used the fathometer to find me a nice deep trench, about 2,500 feet or so and shut the boat off.

The silence of the open ocean was amazing. The only thing I could hear was the sound of the waves softly lapping against the hull of the boat. It was a shame I had to ruin the moment by starting the motor on the wood chipper. I untied the chipper and moved it so its spout was pointing over the side of the boat. I got the chipper running with a push of a button. Once the chipper was running at full speed, I went over and got the boat moving slowing parallel to the wind. As the boat slowly moved on its course, I took my “body pop” from the cooler and proceeded to feed him head first into the chipper. I was amazed how fast the body was pulled into the blades and how little effort the chipper had at running the frozen body through. I let the chipper run for about two more minutes then shut it off. I looked back at the fathometer and saw that I was still in about 2,500 feet of water. I placed the boat in neutral, and then proceeded to push the chipper over the gunwale. I was surprised at how fast the chipper sank!

With the “body pop” gone and the chipper gone the only thing left was to make sure the deck and side of the boat were all “clean”. You would be amazed on how well three gallons of bleach works on cleaning any “mess” off your boat. With all that done, the only thing really left to do was to do a little bit of fishing.

That was five years ago and he is still listed as a missing person. Sure the police have asked a few questions, but they did that with everyone who knew him. There has been a lot of talk as to what happened to him and who did it. It’s always kind of funny to hear or read about how people think they would get rid of a body. But hey, what ever floats your wood chipper I always say.

I walked into Savers and straight to my usual section. The thrift store never changed and I always knew exactly where to go to find whatever I was looking for. The men’s section took up less than a third of what the ladies section did but men usually wear their clothes until they are beyond repair. Women only wear them a few times and then feel the need to change. The other reason that men brought in their used clothes was the real reason I was there. When we get fired from our jobs or quit on bad terms we no longer need whatever uniform is required. We bring them here to try to get at least get a little bit of cash from them. It wasn’t much but useless uniforms and lack of employment would make some people sell anything to get a few bucks.

Tucked in between a few Hawaiian shirts and some polyester pants I spotted a set of male nurse’s uniforms. The colors were a little on the “light” side but sometimes that type of disguise comes in handy. Someone must have gotten fed up with the medical profession. The more I considered what I had in mind, the more I realized that this was not exactly what I was looking for. I needed something more in the emergency field. After unburying some janitor’s uniforms, post office shorts and army fatigues, a darker shade of blue caught my eye. It was only a rent-a-cop uniform but it bore enough of a resemblance to an actual police uniform to be indistinguishable in a true emergency. All of the buttons and snaps were in good condition and the uniform was complete with the exception of footware. The size looked a little tight but that could be passed off to a few too many doughnuts. I tucked the uniform under my arm and made my way to the cash register, grabbing the hospital scrubs as I passed. The pimply faced teenager barely batted an eye at my purchase. He probably assumed it was for some fantasy I had in mind and would forget about me as soon as I walked out the door. That’s the way I like it.

As soon as I walked through the door of my home I turned on my police scanner to start listening for the perfect call. Vegas is a busy place and the type of accident I was looking for was bound to happen soon but what I needed was something nearby. It would take a few days, but someone would get careless sooner or later.

It finally happened… It was just up the freeway, less than 2 miles… at least 6 cars… a bus was involved… and overturned… the threat of explosions hung in the air… it was perfect. I dressed quickly and loaded my car. I spotted the plume of smoke from my driveway. Once I was in the car I turned the heater on high and immediately burst into a sweat, but I was smiling as I made my way to the destruction.

The police were just beginning to try to get organized but the chaos was uncontrollable. The mayhem allowed for me to drive close enough to be inconspicuous and to get lost in the tumult of noise and confusion. After making sure everyone was focused on the wreck and no one was watching me, I moved quickly and grabbed the frozen body out of the passenger’s seat. The heater had taken some of the chill off the skin from what my freezer had done to it and the fire would take care of the rest. My sweat along with the tears in my uniform gave the perfect illusion that I had already been on the scene for some time, working to “help the injured”. The bus looked like it was going to go any minute but it was the rush of danger that pushed me to it.

With the body slung in a fireman’s carry over my shoulders, I made my way into the wreckage. With everything going on, no one realized that I had carried a “victim” from the wrong direction. I make my way to the emergency door at the back of the bus. No one seemed to be working there and it was wide open where others had previously escaped. Working quickly I dropped the body into the bus and wedged it between some of the back seats out of sight, but obviously dead if someone did happen to see.

Satisfied that the body would be unrecognizable and with no evidence of foul play, I turned to make my way back to car when I spotted someone’s arm hanging out of a window in a car next to the bus. The way it was laying there it was obvious that the person who it belonged to was no longer among the living. I glanced around and made my way over to the car. The door opened with just a little pressure and the body slumped out into my waiting arms. I carried it in my arms as I made my way back to the car, nodding along with the sympathy glances that I was getting from those gathered nearby.

I placed the body in the passenger’s seat and began to fuel my next adrenaline rush by starting to make plans using the hospital scrubs.

The blood covered knight screamed out in anguish, a pain filled and terrified scream. “Water!!” He managed to say.

Dutifully, one of the peasants doused the man with a bucket of water. The water hissed on contact with the red-hot blood, steam erupting on contact.

“I need more!” he shouted. “It burns!”

They brought more, he was a hero after all. A knight of the kingdom, a twice proven protector of the realm. Sir Jemji, the dragon slayer. He was relatively young, just 24 winters, but he was young for a knight of Blegan.

Homes smoldered from the dragon’s fiery breath. Seven soldiers and dozens of villagers lost their lives to the beast, their charred remains scattering the streets of the village. But Jemji, in the center of the village, stood triumphant beside the massive and motionless form of the dragon. He was the only knight to have battled with the beast and still have breath in his lungs.

Defeating the dragon was only part of the problem, however. There was still the matter of one giant corpse to deal with. A dragon body couldn’t just be left sitting out in the open; the meat can’t be had, and the blood poisons the land.

Time was of the essence. Decisions had to be made.

“That’s a lot of meat to let waste,” one of the villages said. “We should cook the poisons out of it and eat it.”

“Don’t be foolish,” an elder said. “You can’t cook the poison out of a dragon because the poison is the dragon.”

The elder turned to Sir Jemji and said; “Take that beast far from here. Drop her into the shadow land.”

Jemji saw the logic the old man’s words. The village supplied him with four strong oxen, and a broad shouldered adolescent named Melik to accompany him. He and the young man fastened several chains about the dragon and hooked them to the oxen’s yokes.

Their destination was a canyon, a half days journey from the village. The dragon corpse could do little damage there, dropped from the cliff to the shadows below. The animals protested with the burden of the dragon at first, but soon found a rhythm and made gradual but steady progress.

What was typically a half days journey on horseback was much longer with the animals pulling the dead weight of such a massive corpse.

Each day the smell of the dragon became more rancid and unbearable. The knight and his recently acquired squire held no fear of wild animals or bandits with the putrid odor of rotting dragon dominating the air so thickly that it wasn’t just a scent but a taste. To his credit, young Melik stuck it out.

On the third day, as the evening started to creep in; they were finally able to reach the edge of the land. The world seemed to just drop away there, drop into a valley of utter darkness.

Jemji pulled an axe from its strap and cut the throats of each ox, blood spilling out in a flood to the ground below. The animals were tainted and couldn’t return to the village. The plan was to drop the dragon into the shadowy depths, and it seemed like a good plan for the oxen too.

After using the axe to take down a few sturdy branches from an ancient and massive tree, the squire and knight levered the oxen off of the cliff one at a time before moving on to the dragon.

As they started to move the massive creature, the aroma of it wafted up to blast them in the face. They staggered back, dropping the leers and vomiting profusely, in an almost synchronized manner. It was nearly dark when they regained their feet and took the make-shift wedges back in arms.

Breathing as little as possible, they placed the levers under the dragon. It was a long and strenuous task, but they were eventually able to roll the beast over the edge and into the darkness below.

Jemji placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You did well on your first adventure,” he said to him.

“Will the bards sing of this one day?” Melik asked.

“Sadly not,” the knight replied. “This isn’t the part of the stories that they usually tell.”

“What have I just done?”
He stood there shaking and sweating uncontrollably. It was an accident, but he knew it wouldn’t be seen that way. Her family was full of cops and they had never liked the fact that she was with him. He was a kid who grew up on the wrong side of town, his brothers ruining the family name with their antics. When she announced to her family she was moving in with him, they disowned her, except for her sister. She understood what it was like.

He had gotten off of work early and planned to make her a romantic dinner. He was standing at the counter, chopping some vegetables when he felt an itch on his ear. With the hand that was holding the knife, he reached back to scratch, but felt the knife hit something. Knowing that he was okay, he turned to find his love dropping to the ground. The knife had gone straight through her eye, puncturing her brain. Her body laid lifeless on the ground, blood gushing from her face.

He fell to his knees, held her and cried. Hours passed as he laid there with her. He didn’t know what to do. He contemplated calling the cops. He felt like he deserved to go to prison for this, but he couldn’t do that to his mother. She was so proud of him for not following in his brothers’ footsteps. He began to think things through.

He knew that every Saturday she would call her sister and talk about the family. It was Wednesday. That gave him 3 days before people would notice. He grabbed the phone, called her cell phone, and left a message. He carried her to the bathtub, blood dripping along the way. He rinsed her off in the shower and watched as the pink fluid swirled down the drain. He bent down next to the bathtub, clinched his teeth and closed his eyes as he pulled the knife from her face.

He started with the fingers only to realize that the knife he was holding wasn’t going to cut through the tissue and bone. He knew he would need something more powerful. On his way to the garage to grab the saw, he called her cell phone again.

He spent hours cutting until every last inch was a tiny chunk of flesh and bone, except for her head. He couldn’t bear to put that saw to her head. He took each piece of flesh and each shred of clothing and placed them into paper bags. He placed her head into a different bag, sat the bags in front of the fireplace and started the fire, splashing some lighter fluid to get it as hot as he could. He began tossing in the pieces, watching them sizzle and burn. He began to tear up. After the last piece of flesh and the last piece of clothing went into the fire, he grabbed her head, kissed the lips and placed it gently in the fire. Now it was time to clean.

He knew there was a gallon of bleach by the washer. She was always telling him to make sure that he used the bleach when washing the whites in the laundry. He started to remember all the things she would say, and the sweet way she had always asked him to do something. He wanted to cry, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to finish cleaning.

He called her cell phone and left another message asking her where she was, then grabbed the bleach and went to the kitchen. He scrubbed the floors as much as he could, then scrubbed them again. He scrubbed the bathtub and poured more bleach down the drain. The fire was still going, so he threw in his shirt along with the sponge and paper towels he used to clean. He let it burn itself out as he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke suddenly; unaware of what time it was or if it all was just a dream. It was Friday. It was time to finish it all.

He started sorting through the ashes, picking out the pieces of bone, and placing them aside. He took out the skull, and placed it next to the other bone pieces. He was still unsure what he would do with those pieces, but he knew that he had to get rid of them. He placed them in another paper bag.

He drove to a place just outside town, a place they would always go just to watch the stars. He placed the bone fragments on the ground, and began to dig a hole. After getting the hole about a foot deep and a foot wide, he poured the bones into the hole. He placed her skull on top and covered it with dirt. He drew a heart on the ground, and got back in the car and drove off. When he got home, he called the police to report her missing. They told him that she probably just left him, like her family had wanted. There was an investigation, but no one seemed to think that there was any foul play. He sold the house about a month later, and no one ever questioned him.

To this day, he spends his nights sleeping on the ground where he buried the pieces of her.