Cold Play

Before me laid a pristine woman, the toe tag read Meredith Richards. 38. Cause of death: unknown. Her skin cold to the touch, not a scratch on her, with flowing red locks, emerald eyes, and firm breasts. Rumor was she was walking down the street, then just dropped dead. The coroner is a juiced in local drunk with no medical credentials, so it’s unsurprising he couldn’t figure out a cause of death. He’s the kind of guy who’d label two gunshot wounds to the head a suicide.

Dolling her up, and powdering her face, I applied lipstick. Her vaginal cavity would be dry, but lubricant would solve that issue. When bodies came my way, they were stiff and prying open legs was never easy. But as my father used to say: if it was easy, everyone would do it.

Lighting a cigarette, I put on the newly released Archie song Sugar. The tone hit my ear better than The Stones. This was good music. Wholesome music. A good tune to dance to and lacked the debauchery of The Stones or Pink Floyd. The British Invasion brought out all the kids, but I didn’t get it. Some people lack Christian values I suppose.

Meredith was a good person, a family friend of sorts. Voted Nixon. Always went to church. Despised the women’s liberation movement and those goddamn anti-war protesters. We’d spend nights berating the hippies, and how they couldn’t see how fighting communism was an important ideal. Damn shame she departed like this. Chalk it up to a broken heart for her husband that died last year, and the incompetence of our local coroner.

Gobbing KY Jelly on my penis, I mounted her. The cold almost made me go flaccid, but looking into those dead eyes kept my apparatus firm.

Sugar transitioned into the chorus, and each thrust brought me closer to orgasm. My body slumped against hers, and I speed up like a dog humping a tree, my heat warming her corpse.

Grabbing her breasts, I pinched the nipples and slammed her harder. Harder. Harder. Her body undulated and spasmed. I continued, savoring every moment I had.

I exploded inside and kissed her forehead. “Thank you Meredith.”

Most people couldn’t handle my job. It takes a special individual to deal with corpses every day. Some people work hard and hate their jobs. As for me, I’ve never worked a day in my life.

#

Post coital ecstasy stuck with me as I retreated to the office. Pouring myself a glass of scotch, and thumbing through the bills, left me wondering how long this could continue. Business hadn’t been good, and with most of the boys off to war, and the town already small, death rates were down. Phones would ring with bill collectors, and frequent trips to the bank kept the crematorium open. As if business wasn’t bad enough, we had niggers yelling about their rights, and feminists demanding all sorts of nonsense. A simple drive became a puzzle in avoiding these anti-American assholes.

Checking my watch, Susan should have dinner ready, and I wouldn’t want to miss her famous pot roast. She’s a lousy lay, but uses her grandmother’s recipes. After twenty some odd years of marriage, resentment set in, and she’d complain about the lack of sexual congress. But copulating with her felt like constipation. Every orgasm forced, and only achieved while imagining a corpse on my table. When we do copulate, she complains I’m half flaccid, and asks if I’m a faggot. With her haggard face, thighs like chicken bones, and shrill voice, how could anyone maintain an erection?

#

Flipping on the car radio to an expose of Ed Gein, the lady said the state committed him to a psych ward. That guy was a mystery to me. He had a wastepaper basket made of skin, bowls made from human skulls, a shoebox full of vaginas, and a whole host of other mangled body parts. Why waste a perfectly good corpse by making furniture? The human form is sacred, made in the image of God, and not to be desecrated in such ways. It’s to be handled with the care it deserves, preferably by a professional. The family needs to know their dearly departed can rest in peace, and how can they rest knowing part of them is made into furniture?

I stop by the gas station for another pack of cigarettes.

“Can you believe it?” Sarah said, handing me change. “Ed Gein. I bet, and I hate to even say such a horrible thing, but I bet he had sexual intercourse with those bodies.”

I shook my head. “Everything I’ve read indicates the opposite.”

She crossed her arms. “What is the world coming to? All this hate on Nixon. He’s a good Christian man, I tell you what. I read a particularly nasty piece by Hunter S. Thompson on him. Such vile—”

“Ma’am, he’s got several pieces on Nixon. I bet he’s a deeply unhappy man.”

Sarah’s a lovely woman, but talks too much. And gossip is unreliable. I know Ed Gein. I mean, I don’t know him personally. But I know enough about him. Sarah’s a fine woman, but I can’t listen to such ceaseless chatter. He never copulated with the bodies.

“Thanks for the pack,” I say, pointing to my watch. “I’m already late for dinner.”

“Have a swell evening Mr. Davis!”

#

My return home was greeted with dimed lights, burnt meat, and a note on the table.

Dear Richard,

I’m staying with my mothers. Dinner’s in the oven. It should come as no surprise why I’m leaving you. I hold no malice toward you, nor do I want to cause you reputational harm. Father Kennedy counseled me in this regard and this is the most appropriate step moving forward. I’m sorry Richard, but you’re no longer the man I married.

Sincerely,

Susan Davis

I know I should feel bad. Perhaps, feel guilty, or feel something, but I don’t. Hatred was never part of the equation between us. Susan was cold to me and I to her. She’s right, this didn’t come as a surprise. Sometimes people grow apart, and maybe people aren’t meant to be together forever. The community might give me the stink eye, and no doubt I’ll be shunned in certain circles.

The community has become stale and lifeless, and is slowly morphing into a den safe for niggers and faggots. If only my mother and father could see what society has become. No doubt they’re rolling over in their graves. The community’s pleasantries are a mask for who they really are. Their smiles as fake as a three-dollar bill. I should be thankful hippies and queers hadn’t infiltrated too much yet, though I’m sure that’s on the horizon. They call it progress, but seems the fall of Western civilization.

The pot roast was lukewarm and dry. I ate a slice with the broiled potatoes and carrots. I drowned the meal with half a bottle of scotch, before stumbling to the couch. Before I could turn on the TV, there was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Davis,” the nigger said. “Sorry to disturb you, but once again I received your mail.”

“Thank you, Harlan.” I said, thumbing through the bills.

I could tell he wanted me to invite him in for a drink. Truth be told, I’d didn’t much fancy negros. When he moved next door, my property value plummeted. The others wouldn’t admit it, but they didn’t like him. And how could they? He moves in, and all the decent white folks can’t sell their property, or if they do, it’s at a great loss.

“I can tell your grass needs mowing.” He said. “I’d be more than happy—”

I waved him away. “No need. Thanks again.”

If the niggers infiltrate the neighborhood, it’s only a matter of time before queers and other perverts do the same. It’s bad enough Randall Williams opened up a dirty bookstore. I lobbied against it, but the city council approved his application. Sometimes I feel the degenerates are winning. What next, legalized marijuana and gay marriage? I wager that’s science fiction, but it makes a fella wonder sometimes.

Given my proclivities, it’s natural to wonder about my perversions. The difference between me and the others is harm. The woman on my table is dead. Who’s being harmed? It’s a victimless crime, and only one step above using a rubber woman. Randall Williams on the other hand is corrupting the youth. Such filth is a slippery slope to violence.

I chained Lucky Strikes as I watched a news report on Ed Gein. The phone kept ringing, probably Susan, but I didn’t have the heart to answer. I’d deal with that in the morning.

I can’t shake the feeling that my life is falling apart, that my sanity is slipping like a drunk on a bar stool. My crematorium will probably go under, I’ll lose my house, and my wife left me. And even among all this, I don’t care. I just need more bodies, if only for a little bit more cold play before the bank repossesses the place.

Dead eyes gazing into your soul upon penetration is a rush. And it never goes away. It lessons across time, but it’s always intense. But never as intense as the first time, like back in high school, when I discovered Mary Jane’s body down by the crick. The body fresh and only a single gash across her neck. And she was still warm, almost as if still alive, and her vagina wet and welcoming. Her breasts perky.

That’s a rush I’d like to capture again.

#

“Can you believe it?” Sarah said, ringing up my donut and coffee.

“Is this about Ed Gein again?”

“No, sir.” She handed me my change. “Worse. The radio said a bus full of cheerleaders was in an accident last night. Fatal too. They all perished.”

“You don’t say?”

What luck! If even half of them use my crematorium, I may just be able to spare my business. Or at the very least, stave the wolves. I tried to hide my erection, but Sarah gave me the look.

I shrugged. “Involuntary. It happens.”

“Anyway,” she said. “Word has it you and Susan are getting a divorce?”

I need to leave town. Word spreads to fast ‘round these parts. “Pardon me, but is this your concern?”

“I’d like to help anyway—”

“No need. Late for work.”

“Let me know if—”

The door closed behind me.

#

I sat in the empty office chaining more Lucky Strikes. Another notice from the bank. I flipped on the radio only to hear that Jim Morrison had died. When he exposed himself on stage, that’s when I lost all sympathy for him. Complete lack of self-control.

As I finished my donut, the phone rang. Hr. Harrison on the other line. “Richard, how are you?”

I wanted to strangle him. Since he opened up his funeral home, he sucked my business dry. Rumor has it he buys into all this social progress nonsense. “I’m ok. What do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the 13 cheerleaders.”

“How could I not?”

He sighed. “I need a favor. There’s going to be a group funeral the day after tomorrow. I can’t prep the bodies, and deal with the families in such a short time.”

“What do you need from me?”

“50/50 split. I’ll bring the bodies over, you prep them, and I’ll come back tomorrow morning to pick them up.” He paused. “Do me a solid here, and I’ll do what I can to ensure you stay in business.”

“Gimme an hour.” I said.

“Sure thing.”

#

I had no real training in prepping corpses. After all, beyond removing the bones, teeth, and other hard matter—as well as draining the blood—what else is there to do? But I’ve dolled up corpses before, though not to funeral showing professionalism.

This was a professional job and one that could save the business. I couldn’t let my carnal urges get the better of me. If the cheerleaders were in a bus accident, no doubt they’d be mangled and bruised. Not something I’d like to copulate with anyway.

Chaining more Lucky Strikes, the divorce papers would arrive in a few days. She’d probably talk to her mother and rationalize my distant behavior, but in the end, I’ll end up divorced. Her mother never liked me, nor I her. After all, her mother was a strong proponent of women’s suffrage and even marched with Martin Luther King. Some would say she was ahead of her time, forward thinking even, but I like society as it is.

About an hour later the bodies showed up, and to my chagrin, most were pristine—barely a scratch on them. One could be forgiven for thinking they all just dropped dead. Sure, a few had cuts, one had a rod through her chest, and another’s face was smashed in. But counting them all, about half a dozen or so were ripe for copulation.

Downing a glass of scotch I started to play. I’d still have time to work later.

#

Noon rolled, and with my penis inside the second corpse, there was a loud bang at the door. I threw on pants and a shirt and was greeted by Officer Maria Owens. Rarely did anyone darken my door. Maria was a save-the-world type, and rumor had it hard as nails. She had a reputation for going after sex criminals, and had a track record to prove it. If she was at my door, it could only mean she was onto me.

“How’s business, Mr. Davis?” She asked.

“Not as good as it could be,” I said. She nudged her way in, no doubt trying to see what I was up to. “I’m a bit swamped right now.”

“I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

Of course, to arrest me for copulation with a corpse. My wife probably knew, or had suspicions of my proclivities. She probably tipped off the police. The phone rang, and I took the opportunity to go answer it.

My father always kept a shotgun in the office. To my mind, it seemed moronic. To me, he was a bit too paranoid. After all, who’d rob a crematorium? I snatched the gun and returned to the officer.

“You ain’t taking me in.”

“Mr. Davis,” Maria said. “What’s the meaning of this? Put the gun down for godsake.”

“You people will never understand.”

“Understand what, Mr. Davis?”

“The joy of cold play.”

“Mr. Davis,” Maria said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Put the gun down.”

“I knew my past would catch up with me eventually.” I exploded her head. “Ain’t takin’ me in. No ma’am.”

Searching the officer for a warrant produced an envelope. Divorce papers.

#

With the crematorium ablaze, and my car failing to start, I headed down a red dirt road, and a thumb in the air. A young man pulled up and told me to get in.

The radio had a speech by Richard Nixon.

“Law and order,” the man said. “That’s what this country needs.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I said. “What brings you out here?”

“Just passing through. Headed to law school. Yourself?”

“Passing through as well.”

He extended a hand. “The name’s Ted Bundy.”