Max is a hard man to slice. Damn muscle-bound steroid freak. Paula yanks the cleaver free from his ripped torso. Dull as a butter knife. She could use a good bone saw right about now.
She throws open the kitchen drawer in search of anything sharper, digging past the plasticware and Burger King condiments, the twisty ties and knotted rubber bands. She settles on the carving set Max bought at the Williams-Sonoma outlet after Christmas, seventy-five percent off. He liked the Santa Claus head handles. “Gen-u-ine North Pole,” he said. Paula gives him a good kick and sticks what’s left of him with the fork. “Ho ho ho, asshole.”
She never should have killed him in the motor home. The fridge was way too small to keep him on ice. She’d told Max that morning making breakfast the fridge was tiny enough for Barbie’s Dreamhouse. “Well, you sure as hell ain’t no Barbie,” he said, slamming back a protein smoothie with a splash of Jack. He smacked his lips with a so good smirk and she smacked him into hell fire eternity with the ease of cast iron.
Paula studies the frying pan covering his face, the underside greasy from eggs and bacon. She’d popped out his dead eyes because she couldn’t stand him staring at her, sticking both in the egg compartment, facing the inside, so ole blue eyes could see for himself she was right all along about the size of the fridge.
Sheree Shatsky writes short fiction believing much can be conveyed with a few wild words. Recent work has appeared in The Runcible Spoon, Bending Genres, Virtual Zine, Defenestration and New Flash Fiction Review with work forthcoming at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. Read more at: shereeshatsky.com – Sheree tweets @talktomememe.