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  Tyler had to stop and laugh.

  The operation took an hour. He grabbed six black candles and stuck them into his coat pocket. In a small steel bowl, he brought the tonsils and adenoids into the kitchen as he laughed like a mad hatter. Again, his mind tried to reason with him to stop before he became a cannibal, but sleep-deprivation, combined with his wife’s insulting words …

  (You’re just an ear, nose and throat doctor … Whatever)

  … drowned the sensibility in a sea of hatred. He took some flour out and poured it into the bowl, kneading the body parts to make a sensible batter. Then he poured no-stick oil into a pan and fried her tonsils and adenoids. When they were done, he put them on a plate, grabbed some salt, a napkin and a fork and sat down to meat. He arranged the black candles in the candelabrum and raised his hands.

  “Lord Satan, accept this sacrifice of flesh ripped out of my wife, and thank you for the opportunity to cannibalize the bitch that makes my life a nightmare. So mote it be.”

  If Morgan could only see him now, how he’d bested her, how he ate her like popcorn chicken! Anything became palatable if one fried it: cucumber slices, you name it—mostly the flavor of the breading came through. But the few traces of her that burst out with the hot oil tasted bland, like fried tofu.

  After he washed down the satanic snack with white wine, he unhooked the slut and moved her back to the bed. He worried about the red marks around her nose and mouth from the chloroform, but as stupid as she was, she probably wouldn’t notice them. He moved the gurney back to the study, locked up and headed to the bedroom. Once in bed, Tyler endeavored to sleep, though it flew from him. An idea came, as if a demonic blessing, telling him to pray to Satan for unconsciousness, then he’d find it. He raised his hands into the air and gave the goat-horned salute with his index and ring fingers near the end of the prayer.

  “Great Lord Satan, don’t let Jesus, the impotent God that failed, keep fucking up my life.” He pronounced that last word in a long singsong because he’d been moved to. “Put me to sleep, Unholy One, so mote it be. Hail Satan.”

  His last thought was that he’d have to buy The Satanic Bible and the altar tools at a new-age store tomorrow, the place he’d purchased his amulet. He needed to step up his secret dealings, for the word “occult” meant “hidden from view.”

  Miraculously, sleep took him.

  And how could nightmares haunt him? His life was an endless bad dream.

  Chapter 3

  Tyler’s eyes opened widely, for the harsh glow of the sun streamed through the curtains and blinds. He yanked his arm up and looked at his watch. Tyler was lucky he’d woke on a Saturday morning, for he’d overslept, till 10:00 a.m.—a glorious eight hours like he’d not had since boyhood.

  Then he remembered praying to Satan for sleep. Blessed by Lucifer, he’d figured out the secret to obtaining the rest needed for sanity and health. He stopped and gave thanks to the devil, praising the Dark One. Than he remembered the operation he’d performed on his wife … and the cannibalism that had followed. With a thrill, he almost cried out in elation.

  He’d become the devil’s disciple.

  Tyler rolled over and glanced at his wife, who slept like the dead. Without thinking about it, he yanked her mouth open, nodding at the bumps on the tongue so atypical after a tonsillectomy. He snickered at how he’d performed the operation to get even with her, even though she hadn’t needed it. No swelled tonsils here, just revenge, served hot with batter.

  Morgan opened her eyes.

  He released her mouth and kissed her, acting like he’d wanted to suck face, sticking his tongue down her—erp!—raw throat. She cried out in pain and, as was typical for her, rudely shoved him away and held her mouth. She yanked her head back on the pillow and groaned, then rolled back over.

  Lazy bitch.

  “How about some breakfast, huh?” he blurted. God, how he’d become a brazen demonist!

  A moan was her answer.

  “I mean how would you like some breakfast.” He clamped his hand over his mouth to stop the cackle that threatened to rear its ugly head. He took his hand away when he had composure. “Some ice cream, perhaps?”

  “No, honey,” she answered. “Let me sleep. I don’t feel good.”

  “You’ve probably got a cold. It’s going around at the office. Where does it hurt, baby doll?” Again, he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop the mad laughter that threatened to erupt.

  “I’ve got a sore throat, and I feel dizzy. I’ve got an earache, too.”

  Tyler nodded at her bare, luscious back. Those were normal symptoms after a tonsillectomy. As far as recovery procedures, he knew the drill. “I’ll get you a glass of water.” She’d need fluids so she’d heal faster. “In fact I’ll get you a whole pitcher and let you pour a glass whenever you need.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  “I’ll grab you a pain reliever, too.” Acetaminophen: she’d need it like oxygen. Some antibiotics wouldn’t hurt, either. He’d need to go into his study to grab those.

  “Thanks,” she added.

  It wasn’t until he reached the kitchen that he let the insane cackles fly. The dumb bitch didn’t even know! But the devil knew, and that was all that mattered. He stopped by his study, then brought her the drugs. Actually, she’d need to rest and eat soft foods for a few weeks. Ah well, he was the house chef anyway, so who’d argue?

  On a tray, he set the medicine, pitcher and glass. He brought them into the bedroom and placed the tray on the nightstand.

  “Swallow these, and I want you to take it easy for a few weeks and eat mushy food, like ice cream. This strain of cold that’s going around, if we don’t get it under control, it’ll turn into the flu.”

  Bleary-eyed, she rubbed her eyeballs and sat up. She nodded. “I get the flu and throw up every year, honey.”

  “Well, now you’re married to a doctor. We’ll see if we can’t put a stop to that.” He put the pills in one of her hands and set the full glass in the other. “Down the hatch—doctor’s orders.”

  She took the drugs, guzzled the water, wiped her mouth and lay back down. “Thanks again, honey.” She gave him the come-hither eyes. “C’mere, sexy hubby.”

  He held his hands out. “I don’t want to catch a cold.” Give the guy the Oscar.

  She groaned. “No! Huggers!”

  Tyler held her, reveling in the touch of her soft flesh. He resisted a tit grab—himself inwardly rejoicing that they were bigger now that she was pregnant—and broke the embrace. “Sleep now. You need it.”

  Her lovely brown eyes found his. “Honey, why do you keep your study locked? What’s in there?”

  What a strange question. And now? After the surgery?

  “I told you, I have to study up on the medical field and stay abreast of my career,” he lied. “You listen to your doctor and rest.”

  “Yes, honey.”

  She didn’t need to be told thrice. Docile, Morgan shut her eyes and rolled over.

  “Hail Satan,” Tyler whispered.

  He left her there and spent a mint at the new-age store to make ready the tools for the altar.

  m/ m/

  Three weeks later.

  The bitch just had to go to church, but Tyler refused. Instead, he set his occult tools around the table with a black tablecloth in his study and arranged them hither and yon. While the cunt worshiped the Christ, he’d give homage to Satan. He now wore a pentagram ring, all shiny and new, on the opposite hand but the same finger as his wedding ring, as if also wed to the devil. He’d also bought a blank Book of Shadows, for he intended to write his own spells, being a creative artist. A fetching brunet named Chady at the new-age store had been helpful when he’d asked what he’d need for his altar, but hadn’t approved of his Satanism. Tough shit.

  He’d been so angry about the ordeal with Chady girl, that he’d composed the chorus of a song about it:

  Wiccans, white-lighters, do-gooders, tree-huggers.

  You take all
the fun out of witchcraft, you fuckers.

  He read it again with pride. “Damn, my one-man heavy-metal band will rule!”

  The altar tools were as follows: a huge gold bell with a striker; a silver pentacle plate; a silver chalice, for gold meant Christianity; a Nazi World War II Dagger that served as his athame; a sword; The Satanic Bible, as well as The Gospel of Filth: a Black Metal Bible and The Satanic Verses; a black voodoo doll—Chady had called it “Fith-Faith,” but Tyler wished to call a spade a spade—a Zippo lighter and a silver bowl should he decide to set the doll on fire after chanting, sending his enemy up in flames.

  But he had better ideas of what to do to Morgan.

  Speak of the devil, there she was banging on the door and calling him. Tyler looked at his watch. That was about right: 12:15 p.m. She’d stayed to hear the pastor’s sermon: Vini, vidi, vici, yadda-yadda-yadda, blah-blah-blah. Fat load of good that would do her.

  “Hon-ee, answer me! It’s time to have lunch.”

  “Just a minute,” he answered.

  “What do you do in there, anyway?”

  Tyler decided not to dignify that question with an answer.

  “Why don’t you let me in there? Are you doing something illegal?”

  “I said I’d be out in a minute!”

  Finally, the bitch quit being the Study Police and left him alone.

  Ruefully, he opened the door and shut it, then locked it behind him. He trudged toward the dining room, not wanting her company. Once there, she’d spread out a huge tray of cold cuts and a loaf of bread, plus chips and soda. What a spread.

  Well, bon appetit.

  If she only knew he’d been eating her.

  How maddening! She sat across the table from him and watched him eat.

  “Why aren’t you eating?”

  She giggled. “Grandma Effie took me to McDonald’s. You know, your favorite ‘restaurant’?” She’d curled two index fingers and middle fingers on the last word. “I swear, I’m never takin our kids there.”

  That much he understood. One couldn’t expect a woman to be thrilled to be taken to Mickey D’s.

  “Well do you have to sit there and watch me?” Tyler asked.

  Morgan rolled her eyes and uttered a drawn-out grunt. “There you go again, tryin to start a fight. I swear, you trippin.”

  “I’m not ‘trippin’.” Whatever that meant.

  “Yeah, right, honey.” She got up and crashed into the La-Z-Boy chair, another maddening habit she’d reminded him she had. And he’d just bought the thing, sleek and black, and here she was ruining it.

  “Could you not crash into the chair like that?”

  “Sorry, honey.”

  Holy shit and miracle, an attempt to be human.

  Tyler didn’t think he’d be able to enjoy lunch now, but he gave it the ol college try. Fucking hell, liverwurst or bologna. He had half a mind to go to McDonald’s just to piss her off, then brag in her face about getting the double quarter pounder with bacon. Grandma Effie would’ve taken her to Walmart to shop, though she could afford the ritziest stores in town. They had a McDonald’s built into the cheap store, but they didn’t offer a double quarter pounder.

  Morgan talked up a storm on the phone, speaking with the diesel dyke she’d had an affair with when she and Tyler had separated.

  “Oh, I’m at home with Tyler. I’m bored.”

  Tyler looked up from his bologna. “Am I boring you? I could go to the titty bar. Besides, you could leave.”

  Morgan waved him off. “Yeah, girl, what you got goin on?”

  Tyler sighed and shook his head. “Bitch. There are plenty of things to do around here. It’s almost time for the Cubs game. There’s a good movie on tonight, and I need to practice my vocals and guitar, plus I need to work out—the only time I have to listen to my albums.”

  “Hey, hey. Okay, bye.” Morgan ended the call.

  “Did you hear a word I said?” Tyler asked.

  Another drawn-out grunt. “Excuse me for living, honey. I have friends, unlike some people.”

  “Well, buddies are overrated. They try to steal your girl.”

  Although, in my case, they’re welcome to her.

  “And were you talking to Rusty Nailah, the lesbian you cheated on me with?” Tyler added.

  Morgan shrugged. “What am I supposed to do, pretend she doesn’t exist? And I didn’t cheat; we were separated.”

  Tyler brought his fists down hard on the table, making her jump. “Yes, you did cheat! We weren’t divorced! I forbid you to talk to her anymore. If you do, I’ll divorce you.”

  “All RIGHT.”

  “Again with the yelling. We’ve talked about his.” God, she was like a five-year old.

  “Why don’t you want to go to church anymore?” she asked. “You’re the one that got me to go.”

  “Those fanatics are crazy,” he answered. “That drives people insane, being righteous over much. That’s why I got out and don’t wanna go back. They’ll tell a girl raped in an alley that she can’t get an abortion. Bullshit! What’s she supposed to do, have the Freddy Krueger baby?”

  Her eyes glazed over, that concept too much of a brain teaser for her.

  “Besides, I hate the boring church songs and the snore-inducing sermons. Big deal. What do they do on crazy nights, watch their hair grow longer?”

  Morgan pinned him with her eyes. “What do you do in that study?”

  He pushed the plate away from him; he couldn’t eat with this mess. ”I told you, I’m keeping abreast of the newest surgical procedures and studying up on my surgery techniques so I won’t forget them. There’s nothing in there that would interest you.”

  FUCK women’s intuition!

  Morgan got up and bitched, keeping it up till she was out of the room, up the stairs and out of earshot: “Yeah right, honey, you just want to get away from me, and when you do spend time with me you hate my guts and gripe about everything I do …”

  The rest was unintelligible.

  As he rose to drive to a real McDonald’s in his Lamborghini, he mused over how Morgan had always been possessed; every Sunday in the past, she’d thrown a hissy fit, as if being passive-aggressive about how she didn’t really want to go to church. In fact the last few times he’d gone with her, she’d just sat there like a bump on a piece of shit, not saying the words, singing the hymns or rising when she was supposed to. Then why go? Tyler didn’t care if she wanted to leave church. He had, and he hadn’t been struck dead. But she didn’t want to get away, how stupid! God had never gotten him a decent opposite-sex partner; it was either ol loony or He’d tried to set him up with a man or a little girl. Jesus, the ultimate retard. Why go to a church service, to get raped?

  As he shut and locked the entry door, he had a great idea, probably just what she needed:

  A lobotomy.

  Chapter 4

  After supper, a dinner Tyler had to cook, Morgan had an episode that made Sunday afternoon look like Disneyland. While relaxing on the posh white couch over a movie on the plasma widescreen mounted on the wall, he looked Morgan’s way, but she was on that damned touchscreen laptop talking to her eighteen-year-old cousin Kaylie. Why was she even here if she was going to play on the computer and talk on the phone all of her waking hours? And then she had the nerve to accuse him of trying to get away from her?

  Tyler cleared his throat. “Babe?”

  She looked his way.

  “Why don’t you come over here and cuddle. I know how much you like doing that. I found a good movie. It’s your favorite: The Exorcist.”

  That was about right.

  “Yes, I will, honey,” she answered. “Let me log off, then I just need to call one more person.”

  He threw his arms up, then slapped his legs. “If you don’t stop blowing me off for your relatives and friends, I want a divorce.”

  “OKAY. I WILL, honey.”

  “For the millionth time, you can’t yell in here.” Tyler heaved a heavy sigh.

  �
��Whatever.” Morgan dialed her cell phone. “Is Kaylie there?” A pause. “Hey, girl. Whatchoo up to?” Another pause. “Me, oh, I’m chillin with my hubbie, as usual. Did you get that green hoodie at Rue 21?” She squealed. “You go, girl!” Another pause. “Hey, I hear Ke$ha. What’s Aunt Candy sayin in the background? Oh, you gotta go? Okay, keep it real, beeotch. Bye.” Again, she squealed, then laughed. “That’s right. You go, girl. My bitch, my bitch.”

  God, how puerile.

  Tyler said, “Coming?”

  “In a minute, honey. I’m craving ice cream.”

  “But you’ve already had half of the tub! I haven’t eaten any yet. Mind if I have some?”

  Her countenance fell. “So I can’t have any?”

  Again, he sighed. “Go ahead. What’s mine is yours; we’re married.”

  She squealed and ran into the kitchen. “Thank you, honey.”

  “Fat-ass loon,” he said under his breath.

  “What was that, honey?” Morgan reappeared in the dining room, devouring the ice cream, along with milk. It was her twelfth glass of the day.

  “Nothing. Hey, are you gonna get those dishes done? I don’t wanna draw bugs.”

  “Ho-nee! I’ve been having stomach pains, and I just got my tummy settled.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “Um, what were we talking about?” she asked mindlessly, then dug back into her ice cream.

  “The dishes? They need to be done?”

  “I told you, honey, I just got comfortable. You don’t listen, do you?

  “Bitch,” he said under his breath.

  Morgan furrowed her brow and glowered at him. “Did you just call me a bitch?”