Roseanne
Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby...
Until you find yourself locked in a cage.
For three days.
With a dead body.
In the Louisiana summer.
With no air conditioning.
I glare at the fly-riddled corpse laying beyond the locked door of my cage. The buttons of Albert Briscoe's shirt strain against the bloat of his distended, green-gray stomach. His moving stomach, the thin skin undulating over the gasses and maggots that chew through the flesh beneath. The stench of decay, the buzz of insects, the smell of shit and piss that have vacated his body, it's fucking revolting. And I'm not squeamish. But I have standards. I prefer my corpses fresh. I just want to take my trophies and stage my scene and go, not hang around and watch as they liquefy.
As if on cue, there's a quiet tearing sound, like wet paper ripping apart.
"No..."
I can almost hear Albert from beyond the grave: Yes.
"Oh no no no ..."
It's happening. This is for killing me, you fucking bitch.
The skin splits open and a white mass of maggots tumbles out, like little orzo pastas. Except a significant number of those pastas are crawling toward me at a glacial pace, looking for a quiet place to complete the next stage of their maggoty lifecycle.
"Jesus fucking Christ." I schooch on my bum across the grimy stone floor of my cage to curl myself into a ball. My forehead presses to my knees until my brain aches. I start to hum in the hope I'll drown out the sounds that are suddenly too loud around me. My melody grows louder, and louder, until my chapped lips start to form the occasional word. No one here can love or understand me... Blackbird, bye, bye ... I hum and sing until the words fade away, and the melody too.
"I renounce my wicked ways," I say after the song disintegrates among the dust motes and the hum of opalescent insect wings.
"That's a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways."
I startle at the sound of a woman's deep, smooth voice, the cadence of a faint accent warming every note. My curses cut the humid air when my head smashes against an iron cross-bar of my small cell as I scurry out of reach of the woman who saunters into the thin thread of light from the narrow window, the glass opaque with fly shit.
"You seem to be in a predicament," she says. A lopsided grin sneaks across her face, the rest of her features sheathed in shadow. She takes a few steps into the room to stare down at the corpse, bending to get a closer look. "What's your name?"
I'm on day three of no coffee. No food. My stomach has probably imploded and sucked other organs into the void. A loud chorus of desperately hungry internal monologue is trying to convince me that those are, in fact, little orzo pastas marching toward me, and they might just be edible.
I can't deal with this shit.
"I don't think he's going to answer you," I say.
The woman chuckles. "No shit. I already know who he is anyway. Albert Briscoe, the Beast of the Bayou." The woman's gaze lingers on the corpse for a long moment before she shifts her attention to me. "But who are you? "
I don't answer, remaining still as the woman takes careful, measured steps around the corner of the cage to get a better look at me where I'm huddled in the shadows. When she's as close as the bars will allow, she crouches down. I try to hide beneath my tangled hair and folded limbs, giving her only my eyes.
