J.F. And on the exam, when I ask if you don’t need to give an order with the motion, you say?
K.T.: Yes.
J.F.: Are you kidding me?
K.T.: Yes.
The follow up saves me. I really thought the answer was yes.
***
I had to cut up P.A. before the rotting. That smell would have been awful.
I picked up P.A. in my hands, gently so as not to slip and drop, either myself or P.A. Rough brown skin, tiny spines starting to curl up from age, old prickly hair. Lighter than I expected. Maybe a dead corpus loses weight over time. Do you believe in souls? Do you believe that the soul leaving the body makes it lighter?
I took out my Farberware cutting knife. Nice twelve-inch blade, some cheap silvery metallic construct, with rust freckles all up and down the blade. Not stainless steel. Nice wooden handle, something you might find on a pop gun rather than a carving tool. It might be usable as a tanto, but for the fact that it can’t really cut anything. I read that in feudal
I laid P.A. out on the counter, after clearing off some space. Amazing how still P.A. could be. I grabbed P.A. with my left hand to steady, and with my right hand holding the Farberware, I cut P.A.’s head off. No, that’s not accurate. I sawed P.A.’s head off. The brown skin, demonstrating green flecks, resisted my cutting motion, toughened over time, like a hard rind. When I finally teased the blade through, it slapped onto the cutting surface with a thunk and a slight indentation left behind. Juice trickled out. Surprised me how clear it was, how little puddled beneath P.A. I touched it before it congealed and grew tacky. Put it to my lips. So sweet. So very sweet.
I put the head to the side after licking the exposed flesh. So very sweet, like an angel’s cheek, and just as soft and forgiving. I could have licked it all day, but there was a job to be done. Nobody else was going to do it, and if I just left the body there, the flies would have come within days. Feast upon my feast, steal my wealth.
Yes, that’s right, I planned on eating P.A. I still plan on eating P.A.
I picked up the body, sniffed the wound. Around this point, I noticed sweat beading on my upper lip, my eyes crinkled, focused on the body, glasses left somewhere by accident, last thing on my mind. Even though everything around me fell by the wayside into blurry pale whites, P.A. stood out like the foreign exchange student in prison.
I put P.A. back down, placed the blade edge to the neck wound, and started sawing again into P.A. Beneath the tough skin, the tender flesh beneath parted as easily as a whore’s legs. It was a test of my patience, that damn skin like jerky resisting me, keeping me from the precious gap inside. When I finally slammed through to the other side, the momentary joy had to be pressed to the side of my mind, and I had to keep sawing downward, through and through, rough and ready. P.A. finally fell apart, each half tumbling to the side, exposing the spectacular innards. I pressed lightly with my fingers, the flesh barely depressing, then springing back into place. P.A.’s juice covered my fingers, and I licked it off. Oh, oh.
P.A. was still unmanageable. I had to carve each half into halves, piercing and pushing on through. Then, the rind was too salty. That had to go, carefully ripping down the flesh, peeling off the dripping brown outer layers, disposing of them in the trash, planning how to dump the bag into the dumpster later. Then, starting from the bottom up, cutting slices off of what remained, what little remained, washing them to get rid of the salty brown skin, dumping them into my Tupperware. Once all the parts lay disassembled in the bucket, I picked up a slice, popped it into my mouth. Like carving an angel’s cheek off and popping it into my mouth.
I’ve since stashed the remains into the refrigerator, to let them cool, let them chill, enjoy them after dinner.
Keep in mind P.A. was a pineapple, and you start to understand how disturbed I am.
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