Club Flamingo #4
“These two mean nothing to you,” Eddie says, a command rather than a reassurance. “Whatever you hear … it’s all just dandy.”
Another balm on my soul, that glorious, soothing feeling of indifference sweeping across me in a wave.
Eddie turns and heads toward the other door. I can hear him open it, then pause.
“Okay, my beautiful lunkhead security guards,” he cheerfully exclaims. “Chop each other up! Impress me!”
Eddie makes his exit, disappearing into the next room. I watch him go in the periphery of my vision, taking note of the fact that he doesn’t close the door behind him. I can’t see much from my frozen angle, but there’s something about this detail that strikes me as odd.
I file it away next to the rest of the little things I’ve noticed, one more mental folder in this ever-growing cabinet labeled THE BIZARRE QUIRKS AND INCONSISTENCIES OF UNDEAD EDDIE MICHAELS.
Behind me, the men get back to work.
My body flinches at the next loud thump, a dull metal blade chopping its way through flesh and bone. The swings are firm and direct, rattling the desk below.
It’s not long before the men move on to other tools, curious snips and tears joining the auditory soundscape.
These noises become wetter and wetter as they go, and soon a grotesque sloppiness finds its way into the mix.
At one point, a distinct, hollow scraping fills the air, then the sound of a messy tug.
I’m reminded of someone ripping the seeds and pulp through the top of a carved pumpkin.
Despite my initial flinch—which was more about the volume of the sound than the meaning behind it—I find myself completely disconnected from the audio drama playing out behind me.
I recognize it as macabre and violent, but there’s none of the emotional weight I expect.
I might as well be listening to some mischievous cartoon woodchuck and a frustrated hunter bonk each other’s heads with oversized mallets.
I just can’t muster the will to care.
The security guards have likely found themselves on a similar plane of disconnection, focused diligently on their task without a shred of resistance.
There are no voices whimpering or pleading or crying behind me, just the occasional instruction to place a “limb here” or a “finger there,” followed by a few breathless huffs after any particularly loud chop.
It is what it is. I still don’t react.
What I do connect with, however, is an overwhelming sense of danger that hums through me. Being fine with everything that happens behind me doesn’t suspend my knowledge of the situation at large.
Strangely, gazing at the wall is one of the first times I’ve had a chance to really sit and think this evening, no longer rushing from place to place or struggling to honk the horn of my truck.
I’m finally able to take inventory, and despite the numerous little threads of information that twist and tangle within my mind, one glaring truth shines through.
I can’t let Marlo grow up without a mother.
The tears finally roll down my cheeks in long, salty lines, but I’m unable to wipe them away. I simmer with my emotions. I let them grow and bloom and unfurl within me, recognizing these feelings as the fuel they are.
This is my power. This is my will to escape.
Behind me, the sounds eventually die down, first with a loud crash and then two hollow thumps. Blood loss is probably the ultimate culprit.
It’s not long before Eddie makes his triumphant return, stepping back into the office and cackling with delight at the scene he’s discovered.
“Well, hello!” He laughs, still little more than a blur in my peripheral vision. He claps his hands a few times in exaggerated applause. “I’m honestly shocked by the creativity here. This is delightful.”
“Let’s go,” I demand.
“You sure you don’t wanna see this?” Eddie chides. “Someone stapled a tongue to the wall. I know I said impress me, but I honestly didn’t expect this kind of … vision. I feel kinda bad now; one of these brutes might’ve had some promise in the art world.”
“I don’t care,” I remind Eddie. “You should feel bad, though. You didn’t need to hurt that skateboarder.”
Eddie lets out a long sigh. “Jesus Christ, do you have a funeral every time you swat a fly, too?”
“That’s not even close to the same thing.”
“It’s closer than you’d think,” Eddie quips, then snaps his fingers. “Come on, sport. Let’s roll.”
The second he says this my body loosens up, allowing me the freedom to quickly wipe away my tears. It’s a relief, but it’s also a sign of work to be done. I’ve been a passenger on this journey for far too long, collecting information but unable to act.
My autonomy comes and goes around Eddie Michaels, but this moment is an important reminder of the range and variation within these morsels of free will. Sometimes I’m completely frozen in place, other times I’m simply instructed to “drive” or “follow,” vague commands with room for interpretation.
There’s variation here, and variation leads to mistakes.
Now all I have to do is find the right moment.