Chapter 11
A SCIENTIST… OF SORTS
I heave Greg over the rim of the dumpster. His head slams backward against a garbage bag with a crunch, his mouth gaping, revealing bloodied gaps where his teeth used to live.
It was pathetic to watch. Each one he pulled while sobbing and pleading and bargaining with a god he couldn’t have believed in.
The last few came out so slowly I was sure he’d fall unconscious before finishing, which would have been a real disappointment, but he kept going, kept pulling, so desperate to beat his lover’s count, so desperate to live.
And he lost anyway. As pretty as his little lie must have sounded to him, it disintegrated the second he had to suffer for it, the weak-willed piece of garbage.
The lid slams down with a hollow boom that echoes across the empty loading dock. I close my eyes, letting the sound wash through this body like the period at the end of a sentence. Proof, once again, that I was right.
I turn toward the car, wiping my gloved hands on my pants. I’m deciding whether to remove the gloves now or wait until I’m in the vehicle when a door swings open.
Some shriveled prune of a woman steps out, a stained apron tied around her waist. A garbage bag swings from one hand, and a portable telephone is clutched in the other. Ridiculous contraptions the self-important carry at all times these days, lest they be unreachable for five goddamn minutes.
Her eyes rest on me. I press a hand to my stomach and hunch, scowling.
“Bad Chinese food.” I mime heaving into the receptacle, making a practiced groan. “Wasn’t meaning to use your dumpster, but when you need to go…” I retch into the receptacle again.
She tosses her garbage bag in the direction of the dumpster.
It hits the side with a soft thump and splits when it hits the ground, but her attention is firmly reattached to her portable telephone, and she goes back inside without another glance.
Portable telephones may be ridiculous, but they sure do help in instances like this.
I shake my head at the woman’s utter incompetence. People are so willing to look away, so eager to avoid anything unpleasant. I doubt the idiot will even remember my face by the time she gets home tonight.
Idiots. Idiots. Idiots.
The word plays over and over in my head, like a mantra, like a poem, as I strip off the gloves and toss them into a storm drain, then drive to the parking lot of an abandoned furniture store, its windows covered in FOR LEASE signs that have been there so long the ink has bleached.
Everybody is an idiot. There is no smart person left in the world.
I trudge through the trees until I find a vantage point overlooking the loading dock.
The woods here are thin enough to see through, but thick enough to disappear into, so I lower myself onto a fallen log, the bark rough against my palms, and settle in to wait.
Hours pass. The sky shifts from black to charcoal to the sickly gray of predawn.
A garbage truck arrives at dawn, and the sanitation worker hops down from the truck with tired resignation.
He reaches for the dumpster handle. Tumbles backward.
I let out a hoot of glee, clapping my hands as the man’s body goes slack.
I lament I’m not close enough to observe, but I know the worker’s face will have gone that gorgeous shade of green.
I cannot stand these idiots with their disgusting lies. Do they not know their lies hurt people? That these lies have meaning? What makes me want to scream is that, deep down, they know they’re lying, but they still dare to keep repeating it even though it means absolutely nothing.
I wish they all died. I wish I could kill them all, but I must settle for one pair at a time.
I would have preferred to have a new couple in mind for the next trials already, but the men unraveled so quickly. There was no time to look for anyone.
Could the prune have anybody she pretends to love?
I bat away the thought. She was too weak-willed to put a garbage bag into the receptacle properly. She would give in to the pain straight away, and that would be no fun to watch. I may want to destroy as many liars as possible, but selfishly, it can get boring if they don’t resist at all.
I have time to take as many couples as I would like now. I don’t need to rush. No fools can stop me.
The knowledge should bring me deep pleasure, but it doesn’t reach me the same way as I would expect it to. After a trial, the thrill used to sing through my veins for weeks, but now, it’s already fizzled away.
Perhaps I’ve been going at this for too long.
It’s gotten me bored. I could try something new.
Take more time with the next. Go slower.
Ensure they’ll last longer than a Tootsie Pop commercial.
How many licks does it take to get to the center?
The world may never know, but now I know exactly how many teeth it takes to break a liar.