Chapter 4 #2
Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. Heckel, lying in the chainsaw’s path of destruction, tried to move away but left his feet behind, severed at the ankles.
As he howled on the floor, swinging his stumps in the air, blood splattered the walls, staining the pictures and the dining table. Arthur went back in to finish the job.
“Shit, merde, what a fucking mess!” Soninha yelled.
“Please”—vomit—“don’t kill me!”
God knows how Ataíde was still breathing after all that puking.
The congressman commando crawled across the carpet, propping himself up on fallen bodies, making his escape.
His swollen face looked like it was about to explode.
Before Ataíde could vomit again, Arthur ran the chainsaw across his neck, shredding through skin and fat, bursting him apart once and for all.
Ataíde bled out fast, to the tune of “Every Breath You Take” by the Police.
“Ahhhhh, you fucking bastard!”
Surprisingly for her age, Soninha still had the strength to capitalize on Arthur’s distraction and leap, naked, onto his back.
What a hero. Arthur dropped the chainsaw to take hold of the old woman’s spindly arms as she tried to squeeze his neck.
The chainsaw was still vibrating, dancing around the room like a wild and ferocious animal, clawing off limbs and faces, which later would make the work of crime scene investigators all the more difficult.
I dodged the chainsaw and ran to help Arthur.
He didn’t need me: He launched Soninha backward, spinning her in the air and slamming her body against the ground.
The old woman’s ribs cracked and she writhed in pain.
Arthur scooped up the chainsaw again with skill and approached. Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm.
“You disgusting feminist jackass—” she screamed before the blade made its way through her throat, slicing her open just below her chin.
According to the papers, Soninha’s tongue was found stuck to the chandelier, but I didn’t see that at the time.
I was too busy looking at Umberto, who was trying to hide behind the couch, panting.
Grinning, Arthur stalked over, and I saw then that the grieving, lovesick pharmacist was gone.
In his place was an avenger, who’d made a point of saving the best for last.
Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. Umberto wet himself and begged for his life, spitting blood.
In one swift movement, Arthur severed the old man’s right foot from his leg, delighting in his agonized screams. Without wasting any time, he proceeded to cut off his left foot and both hands, right at his Rolex.
Sometimes the blade would jam, but it was impressive how it swiftly crushed through bone on the second or third try, like butter straight from the fridge.
Umberto’s shrieking drowned out even Whitney Houston’s voice belting “I Will Always Love You.” Rejoicing in Umberto’s desperation, Arthur waited a few seconds to finishing cutting, this time at his knees and then elbows.
Umberto lay on the living room floor like a scarecrow, but Arthur was indifferent: He stood over him, raised his arms, and—letting out a guttural howl—brought down the roaring chainsaw and plunged it into Umberto’s chest. He had to step back quickly as the blade sliced through the old man, splitting his body in half.
His organs bounced off the wall, joining the remaining seagull steaks on their china plates at the table.
Vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm. The chainsaw worked its way through the corpse for at least another minute before shutting itself off. I looked at Arthur, panting.
“Thank you,” I said.
We were filthy with blood and other things.
Arthur circled the room slowly, taking in his work: previously decorated in tones of terra-cotta, the house was now decidedly red.
In addition to blood, there were pieces of jewelry, platters, chunks of food, extinguished candles, and vomit scattered across the tablecloth.
Arthur walked over and picked up a fork.
He stirred some meat around on one of the plates and turned to me.
His eyes welled with tears, and I figured it wasn’t for the people who’d just died.
“That lunch…” he said, pointing at Umberto. “Was it human flesh we were eating?”
I got on my knees and opened my arms wide:
“You can kill me now, Arthur. You don’t need me anymore.”
He nodded with a small smile that was no longer sadistic but tormented. Moving decisively, he grabbed the chainsaw from a corner and restarted it. I shut my eyes as the vroommmm, vroommmm, vroommmm approached. I decided not to react. It was Arthur’s right.
“Your punishment will be to go on living,” he whispered, right in my mutilated ear.
A spew of liquid flooded my face. There was nothing I could’ve done.
I opened my eyes to him drowning in his own blood, his throat sliced with the chainsaw.
I stayed there, stroking his forehead, until he was at peace.
Honestly, I don’t know what I did next, how much longer I stayed in the house.
But I know I walked outside at around two in the morning, realizing the irony of it all: The world outside was still the same.
The air was cold, the street was deserted, the sky was dark and starless.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. I stepped around the still-slumbering drivers and walked through the gate in my bloodied tuxedo, crying and smiling, not caring about the barflies I passed and the doormen asking me if I was okay.
I walked right into the nearest police station.
The world was still the same, but I was different.