How To Hide A Body

I Might Be An Alcoholic. Might.

The flight to New York was longer than expected and the stewardesses were mean. But, for the main course, I did get sushi, which kind of makes up for it. I was going to complain later to try and get a refund on something or a free flight later. I was too busy scheming to mess with the airline at this point in time. New York was humid. The whole atmosphere just reminded me of consumerism, capitalism and commercialism. The tar was worn out so much from everyone trying to get everywhere all the time. But, the pigeons. The pigeons were everywhere, and that's all that mattered at this point. Pigeons. 

Personally, I believe that pigeons are underrated. They are called the rats of the sky in some places, which I think is mean. Pigeons deserve a better rep. 

The Statue of Liberty stood high and proud and was washed out marble blue. Seeing it almost made me feel bad about what I was about to do. 

***

Bart and I were staying in a five-star hotel. I don't know why I even tell you that anymore. From now on, just assume it's the best of the best, and I didn't pay for it. We were staying in the suite on the 16th floor with a beautiful view of the sea and our next victim. And the pigeons. I quickly hit up my explosives guy. 

I called my explosives guy Firework Phil. No one knows his real name. Except for me. That's why I always got a discount on all purchases. This time around, I was going to need that discount, since I was purchasing 300 grams of C4 explosive. I didn't get to work bombs often, so I was kind of excited. Then I went on Amazon and bought a white wig, while Bart went thrift shopping for old, ragged clothes. 

It took Firework Phil three days to send the complete packaging over to NY. He was an airport security officer, which allowed him to get it through airport security without getting caught. The package arrived in a pretty blue box with lace decorating the sides. A small card read, To my wife to be, I love you. He often used cards and decorations such as these to divert attention from any suspicion. The only questions asked were, "When's the lucky day?" and the only accusations were, "You didn't tell me you were engaged!" 

They arrived on a Wednesday and were delivered straight to our hotel. But that wasn't the only surprise I got that day. I was sitting in the empty bathtub (fully clothed) with my laptop balanced precariously on my lap, Bart was watching a soap opera he could now understand.  We got three knocks at the door. Bart went to answer.

"Thank you for delivering!" Bart said, opening the door and signing for the package and taking the heavy box from the deliverer. 

"Glad you like it," the voice answered. I hadn't moved from the bathtub, but when I heard that voice, I clambered out of the bath so fast, my reading glasses fell from my nose, and I slipped on a mini-bar of complimentary soap. I jumped up and skidded on the placard floorboarding in my knee-high yellow socks towards the door. 

On arrival, I heard Bart breathe a deep sigh. He let the clipboard clatter to the floor and closed the door without accepting the package. I pushed him out the way and threw the door open. The box was in front of the delivery person. I hurriedly picked it up and thrust it into Bart's arms.  Sadly, it was not who I thought it was. 

"Oh, hi, Eulalie. I thought you were Cléo." I said, beckoning her inside half-heartedly. 

She smirked, in a way which made me believe that is what she had wanted me to say, "She says hi, by the way. In that box is all the dynamite you ordered. She also asks if you have successfully created that app," she explained, walking inside, throwing her generic cap onto the floor and waltzing into the kitchen. I didn't know Eulalie well, but I wondered why Cléo had hired someone like her. Eulalie had blonde hair cut into a bob, which swayed around her like a summer breeze. Her freckles resembled a constellation. She wore dirty white shoes with black soles, which had been worn out from walking. Her jeans were frayed, and her black shirt had "my soul is the colour of this shirt" written on it in a small yellow font. All this was wrapped up in peach flannel. 

Compared to Cléo's previous personal assistant, she was completely different. Most girls that Cléo hired wore rose silk tops which draped over glossy white pants. They were made of gold chains and pearls. This one was made of spice and not much nice. 

"Thank you for delivering. Tell her that I completed it this morning. It's all ready to go," I said, walking across the hotel room (almost slipping- again). 

"Prove it," she stated, her amber eyes piercing into my soul. The small diamond in her nose flashed briefly in the sunshine. 

"No." I said, "You've done your duty," I looked at Bart and nodded my head abruptly sideways; the action which means "get her out". 

Bart smiled gleefully, picked Eulalie up as if she were lighter than air, flipped her over his shoulder. On her way out, she rested her head in the palm of her hand and blew a mislead strand of blonde hair out of her pale face. He placed her in the passage, and she lightly bounced on her heels as she hit the vacuumed carpet. 

She winked at me and saluted Bart, before turning on her heels and striding down the hall. I forced a smile and slammed the door. I slid down to the floor (which was easy - the socks, again). 

"You haven't finished the app, have you?" Bart asked. 

I shook my head and watched my curls fall and sway. 

"Champagne?" 

I nodded vigorously. 

***

"Done," Bart exclaimed. I was back in the bathtub. Procrastinating. What else is new? I had left soberness behind me (long ago, but who's counting) and Bart had classified me as 'unable to fulfil the task at hand', which was to finish that darn app. Bart had locked me in the bathroom after I had almost lit the kilogram of C4 dynamite on the tiny balcony. 

"Good. Unlock me!" I yelled, the noise reverberating through my marble prison. 

"Are you sober?" 

"Who knows," I said, throwing my hands up. 

I heard a few clicks, and the ensuite door swung open. 

"You're lucky it's a big bathtub," he said, helping me up. 

I collapsed on my bed, and Bart took out his phone, opening an app with a badly drawn Statue of Liberty on the front. I glanced at him suspiciously. 

"So, it's easy. We place a tracker into each stick of C4. We attach the C4 to the pigeons. Et voilà! We can track their positions, so we know which pigeons to explode-" 

"Whatever you do, don't tell Cléo how many pigeons were killed in the making of the production," I said, thoughtfully. 

"My lips are sealed. Anyway, we can also set the dynamite off from the app." 

"Who knew that novice programming course I signed you up for would come in handy," I smiled, patting him on the back, "I think this calls for some champagne," I opened the mini-bar, only to discover a corked bottle of Cape Tonian Wine. I let out a gasp, "I've changed my mind! Life's too short for the same type of alcohol. Wine!"

"I'll lock you in the bathroom again," he warned.

"You wouldn't dare," I threatened, holding up a corkscrew.