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“No.”

  “I heard you call me a bitch. Uh-huh, that’s fine, I see how you are, honey.”

  He shook his head. “Who am I talking to? Your usual personality or the other one?”

  “You wait till I tell Kaylie how you treat me.”

  “I’m not afraid of a high-school girl.”

  “Then wait till I tell her mom. My Aunt Candy ain’t be takin that shit. She’ll go snap, crackle, pop on your ass.”

  “She ain’t gonna do shit.” Tyler was at his wit’s end, about to pull his hair out. “Will you at least dry the dishes while I wash? You dirtied half of ‘em.”

  “Sure, honey.” She bounded out of her chair, done with her ice cream and milk.

  Tyler stuck his hands in the air like an Apostolic Pentecostal. “It’s a miracle! Praise Gawd!”

  She giggled and hit his arm gingerly. “Shut up, honey.” Then she hugged and snuggled up to him. “My sexy, sexy hubbie. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, baby.”

  He broke the embrace. “Yeah, well you need glasses. Let’s get the dishes done before any hanky-panky.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  He shouldn’t have to do the dishes, but that, as everything else, didn’t go without incident. Morgan threw the silverware into the drawer, and Tyler had to tell her not to do that—her passive-aggressiveness letting him know in no uncertain terms that she did not want anything to do with the dishes—then she broke a plate, threw up her hands and headed for her cell phone.

  “Oh shit, I’ve gotta call the police,” she said brainlessly. “If I don’t, you will.” Miserably, she knocked the slightly-drained gallon of milk all over the kitchen floor by accident.

  “Are you kidding me?” Tyler asked. “You just spilled milk in the same spot yesterday!”

  Morgan ignored him. “Come on, po-po, answer.”

  Tyler walked over to where she’d again crashed into the La-Z-Boy chair. “Don’t bring the police over here. I’ll divorce you.”

  She’d sighed and hung up. “Happy, honey? I was just cutting out the middleman. If I don’t call ‘em, you will, bitch.”

  The kill switch flipped again.

  “What did you just call me?” he asked.

  “You heard me,” she answered.

  He bent down so he was in her face. “I’ll show you who the man is! I won’t need the cops to take you!”

  She didn’t have anything to say to that, just sat and kicked her leg.

  “You think I’ll call the cops randomly, huh?”

  The silent treatment. What a laugh. With her? That was a blessing.

  “You stay right there until I finish cleaning up,” he said. “After that, we’ll watch that movie.” He stomped back into the kitchen. “Idiot,” he said under his breath.

  “Did you just call me an idiot?” she yelled.

  “No.”

  Curse this beeotch from Hell. A half hour later, he finished cleaning up after the mongoloid, sweeping up the broken pieces of the plate and mopping up her spill with all-purpose cleaner, plus wet and dry paper towels. Still, the carpet was ruined. Finally, he was able to sit on the couch next to her, cuddle and have some peace and quiet.

  Or so he thought.

  Tyler had recorded The Exorcist, and now he played it on the DVR.

  Morgan growled like a dog.

  Tyler sighed. “Morgan, if you don’t want to go to church, don’t go. You don’t need to come home and act possessed.”

  Though he knew it to be no act.

  Squinty-eyed, she glared at him. “Oh yeah, honey? You just wait till you fall asleep.”

  Now the bitch had done it. Tyler bounded up. “That’s it, I’m out of here.” He turned off the TV and headed for his study.

  Morgan cried out after him: “No, honey, please don’t go. I’m sorry!”

  Ruefully, Tyler walked back into the living room. “Well, I’m sleeping in the study tonight.”

  Morgan scrunched up her face. “You’d better sleep with one eye open.” She placed another call.

  Incredulous, Tyler stared at her.

  “Hey Mom, I got your Xmas gift,” Morgan sing-songed.

  She’d worked his last nerve. He tore the cell phone from her hands and threw it onto the easy chair.

  “What did you do that for?” she yelled.

  “Do you want to be divorced?” he shouted.

  Intimidated, she shook her head.

  “By the way, the study door will be locked, as always, and I’ll be sleeping with a loaded Magnum.”

  “Whatever,” she answered.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Lame to parrot her, but he was at a loss.

  She once again crashed into the La-Z-Boy. He’d have to replace it soon.

  “I see where this is going,” she said, “and I’m not gonna argue. I need to listen to my iPod; it’s my sanity.”

  He lost it. “Morgan, you’re bipolar/manic and half retarded. You don’t have any sanity.”

  Red-faced, she forked him the evil eye.

  “I know, ‘Whatever’,” he added.

  Then she had her ear buds in. She looked daggers at him sporadically as he tried to watch a movie he couldn’t get into now. Heaving another heavy sigh, he shut off the TV and sat there, defeated. Performing a lobotomy on her tonight was tempting, but it wouldn’t do any good. One had to have something to work with, and she was only half there. All it would do was make matters worse. Then she’d be no good for sex, the only thing she was good for.

  How he hated her.

  An hour later, she was over her meltdown and walked over and plopped onto his lap. She made out with him and slipped him tongue, which was hot. But she had to ruin that, too, by being clingy and drawing out the make-out session to two hours. Good God, he couldn’t breathe!

  Tyler pulled away; their lips made a smack sound. “Would you lay off the face sucking before I choke to death?”

  She hissed like a snake and rose from his lap. “Didn’t know I was inconveniencing you.”

  He reached up and touched her shoulder gingerly. “Come on, you know it’s not like that.”

  Morgan went to one of the bookshelves and took down a porno DVD, the only kind of show she could get into with her low I.Q. Most women spoke the language of love, being into romance novels. Morgan spoke the language of lust. “Let’s watch this, honey. I love the porn collection of my sexy, sexy hubbie.”

  Tyler smiled for the first time in what seemed like months. Perhaps it had been months. “Sure.”

  Once the DVD was rolling, it didn’t take her long to pipe up.

  “You see that blonde and brunette, honey?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes,” he answered, “I don’t miss anything.”

  “I’d strip her and suck her tits. I’d drag her into the bedroom and fuck her, then after shutting you out for a few orgasms, I’d invite you in.”

  It wasn’t long before he was as hard as a Festivus pole.

  She grabbed his cock in his slacks and caressed it. “Let’s go into the bedroom, my sexy, sexy hubbie.” She flashed him a smile of smug satisfaction. “And remember, this time you promised me sport-fucking, like that guy in the video with those two girls.”

  It wasn’t long before they were in the bedroom, rutting like beasts.

  But why did he hear a snake hissing throughout the fuckfest?

  Chapter 5

  In the middle of the night, Tyler woke on the couch in his study. At first he didn’t know where he was, then it came back to him. Morgan had had another blowout, and this time she’d threatened him. He knew she wasn’t violent—she wouldn’t even let him teach her karate so she could defend herself, for fucking out loud—she wasn’t able to back up her threats. But Jodi Arias had never been violent until Travis Alexander had come along.

  Tyler’s thoughts turned to how he and Morgan had made wild monkey love a couple of hours ago—scratch that; they’d engaged in sport-fucking—confirming his decision not to give her a lobotomy. If he did, she wouldn’t even be able to
do that.

  The snake sounds he chose to ignore, though they ate away at his subconscious.

  He looked at his glow-in-the-dark watch: it was the witching hour.

  “Come now, for all things are ready,” Tyler said, a line Morgan’s pastor blabbed right before communion. Well, there was a satanic communion, and it started right now. After that fiasco, Morgan was about to lose another organ.

  Tyler rose and turned on the light. Sleep with one eye open, my ass. She’d better sleep with both eyes open. He remembered what he’d learned from studying procedures of the upper-gastro-intestinal surgeon and went to work. He grabbed the cloth, then poured chloroform onto it, unlocked the door and made his way down the hall. “Here I come, bitch,” he whispered. “Let’s see how badass you really are.”

  Morgan wasn’t very badass.

  She lay on the bed, her arm outstretched, drool pouring from her mouth into a wan puddle on the pillow. Tyler inched closer to her, leaning over the bed; getting on the bed might wake her up. And before she knew what had hit her, he had the cloth on her mouth.

  “Nighty-night, princess.”

  Then he had her on the gurney, and a stab of hunger invaded his stomach. He used to hate that, the ol midnight snack urge even though he’d eaten a hearty supper. Now, he couldn’t think of a luckier turn of events. He rolled her onto the operating table and situated her lying face-up.

  “I think you need your spleen out, you rotten cunt.”

  Tyler couldn’t help laugh after her disgusting display of bravado. Who had the upper hand now? He snickered when he thought of how the spleen—part of the immune system—helped keep her from getting sick and produced red-and-white blood cells, as well as fighting infections. She’d contract a lot more sicknesses now, get infected more and there’d be no more trips to the blood bank for her.

  “Lights, camera, silence on the set. Tape rolling, three-two-one action.”

  Tyler started the general anesthesia I.V. to keep the whore out cold, turned on the surgical lights and made four small incisions in the middle of her stomach. Then he inserted the laparoscope so he could see what he was doing. He turned on the monitor. He pumped carbon dioxide gas into her body to expand it. Now he had more room to move. The catheter and Adaptic bag were in place for draining the wounds. Whistling while he worked—the thought struck him that all psychos whistled—he used the thin surgical instruments to place the spleen into a bag prior to removal. Before long, he had it out and checked for bleeding in the belly. With the catheter, he placed the small amount of blood in his chalice, for not much bleeding had occurred—he’d done an exemplary job—and he got ready to sew the cuts shut. Tyler plopped her spleen into a metal bowl and stitched her up. He held an ABD pad over the wounds for absorption and bandaged them.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  How would he explain the surgical cuts and the stiches? Anxiety set fire to his nerves like a live wire. He’d have to kill her now; she’d know. Or he’d have to at least threaten to murder her if she went to the authorities. But that didn’t jibe with The Satanic Bible. Even though that volume was one of the oldest Satanism for Dummies books, it still struck him as the most sensible, Tyler not much of a Cradle of Filth fan. And according to his favorite guidebook, devil worshipers didn’t murder people, for what glory was to be had in prison? Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He guessed he wasn’t thinking, ripping body parts out of his wife like a ghoul.

  But he couldn’t let anything halt the satanic thrill of the act. He had to enquire of the devil, let him steer his hot rod.

  “Lord Satan, calm my nerves, and help me enjoy these fiendish acts of mutilation and cannibalism. So mote it be. Hail Satan.”

  Suddenly, he felt calmer, but was still troubled. He had enough nerve to perform the ritual, though, and that was a blackened blessing enough.

  “Come now, for the beeotch is ready.”

  Tyler had to fight not to cackle like a witch, for this didn’t become males. He got the slut onto the gurney and wheeled her into the bedroom. Then a brilliant thought came to him. He reached down and fetched her shiatsu puppy that lay sleeping by the bed and put the dog next to her. The little shit protested at first, whining and trying to get up, but Tyler held him in place. He shook an angry finger in the worthless mutt’s face.

  “You move and I’ll punt you, I swear to Satan Lord, right out that window and into Mommy’s precious garden.” He petted the dog, who growled quietly. “Yeah, that’s a good little piece of shit, that’s a good little piece of crap.”

  With that Tyler raced for his study. He stripped out of his scrubs, which he placed in the hamper, and put on his black cowl. He’d placed the altar against the west wall; he stood facing the symbol of Baphomet, amidst the pentagram. He lit the black candles, then assembled the ritual tools. With his striker, he struck the bell—the death knell—and grabbed the athame and his grimoire and knelt.

  “Oh, great god of this earth, Satan, who rules the world, I curse those who are weak, the Christian hypocrites, to give the power to me! Come forth from Hell and say halloo to your servant. Grant me pleasures innumerable. I rejoice in fleshly lusts. I command that what I ask will be performed! Come forth, Pazuzu, Satan, Prince of Darkness! I command the forces of darkness to bestow their insidious power upon me!

  “Oh, so mote it be! Blessed be!”

  Tyler drank Morgan’s blood, which bore a heavy iron taste, from the chalice. The crimson lifejuice got him high—imbued him with power—and he could understand how people in the Middle Ages believed in vampires. He poured the little blood that remained onto the floor as a libation to Satan. That done, he snatched up his sword and pointed counterclockwise to each cardinal point of the compass and called the princes of Hell: Satan from the south, Lucifer from the east, Belial from the north and Leviathan from the west.

  “With the wrath of the mocked, bring me power like lightning and thunder! Grant me my wishes, for I kiss the demon! Give me the might of fire, water, air, earth and spirit! Strike dumb Morgan, my enemy, that I may emerge victorious! As Satan rules, so shall his own whose name is as thus: Tyler is the vessel whose skin is as the world. Shemhamforash! Hail Satan!”

  Tyler kissed the demon mask on his wall—just like with Christianity, “Kiss the Son, lest he be angry”—and whipped out the parchment and the quill. He drew himself a safe distance away from the bewildered cops. Then he sketched his wife struggling to speak, but nothing came out but hot air. He remained close to the altar and concentrated on conjuring intense self-pity.

  He wept.

  “Oh, Lord Satan, I’m so worried about the wounds from the operation I just gave my wife! I’m afraid she’ll go to the police and have me thrown in prison with the butt-humpers. Please, Satan, strike her dumb and send her confusion so she’ll stay away from calling the law and shew me mercy. SO IT IS WRITTEN, SO MAY IT BE DONE.”

  With that the ritual ended.

  And now Tyler knew Lord Satan would protect him from the law, help shield him from the weak by making him intimidating in a world where only the strong survived. In the olden days, Americans set sail for Africa to garner slaves for themselves. Now that the African Americans were free; it was an urban jungle, survival of the fittest. And though Tyler wasn’t a bigot, he was above those heartless gangsters who sold drugs to kids and gang-raped teenage girls. Yes, he was better than murderers; it wasn’t listed as necessary in The Satanic Bible.

  His stomach growled.

  Time to fill it.

  He grabbed the steel bowl that held the spleen and walked into the kitchen with a spring in his step, set it on the counter, snatched up a frying pan and sprayed no-stick oil in it. That done, he turned the steel bowl upside down, plopped the spleen into the pan and fried the piece of his wife until cooked. Giggling like an eleven-year-old schoolboy, he scooped up her spleen with a spatula and placed it on a plate, then grabbed a knife and fork.

  “Thank you, Satan, for this taboo,” he whispered.

&nb
sp; He dined on his wife.

  The cannibal wannabes on the Internet were right, the guessing games they played not futile after all. Morgan’s spleen tasted like a chicken breast—delicious!—and he scarfed it down with wanton abandon, rapt with satanic joy.

  After washing the dishes, he slept well that night, not needing to pray to the devil for rest.

  m/ m/

  Tyler woke at 3:00 a.m., sure he’d gone stark-raving mad. In his nightmare, he’d murdered Morgan, dissolved her flesh in acid in a tub, then pounded her bones to dust with a sledgehammer and sprinkled them into the fireplace. Now dreadfully awake, he took deep breaths and told himself it was just a nightmare. That wasn’t the way of The Satanic Bible.

  Unreal, surreal. It wouldn’t come to that, would it? That couldn’t be the only way to keep Morgan from going to the cops.

  And it wasn’t like he worshiped the Nazarene like his organless wife. He couldn’t tell himself Satan wouldn’t tempt him above what he was able to bear. Perhaps he would.

  Tyler rolled over and watched his wife sleep soundly; she snored; the shiatsu also sawed logs, probably chasing bunnies in some fanciful dream, the way the dog twitched periodically. At this moment, Tyler envied his peace, but not willing to throw away his satanic ecstasies …

  (she’d bitch at him till he went mad if he didn’t get even)

  … he simply rolled over and lay there in torment.

  It seemed sleep would never come, so he tried praying to Satan for rest the way he’d done not too many nights ago.

  In satanic magick, Tyler was asleep as soon as he lay his head back onto the pillow.

  Chapter 6(66)

  Morgan’s moaning and groaning woke Tyler up. He opened his eyes and rubbed the sleepy dust from them, then wiped away his lip scum. His wife lay with her eyes closed, moving her head back and forth on the pillow while holding the spot where her spleen had been. She winced and grabbed her left shoulder. Too, she opened her eyes and sat up, pulling up her nightgown.

  She found the bandaged wounds.

  Goggle-eyed, Morgan gawked at him and opened her mouth to speak …