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Paperback Writer

A well accomplished writer, P.S. had so many stories to tell, we had to give him his own space. Enjoy this new style of blog meets fiction!

Sunday, June 26, 2011

An early one

The Serial Killer Next Door

by P.S. Gifford © 2005

“There is a serial killer living next door,” Fred tried to explain.
“What?” His half asleep wife Hilda replied from their deluxe queen four poster bed.
“I said there is a serial killer living next door.”
“Go back to sleep,” Hilda scowled revealing her distinct lack of teeth.
“You are bloody hopeless!” She then added entirely for good measure. As she pulled the pink, flower decaled sheet tighter around her flabby, wrinkled torso.
Fred looked at the digital clock- 3:03 it proudly flashed.
After putting on his dressing down, and his favorite slippers, he slowly meandered downstairs without turning on any lights. He allowed his eyes to adjust. Entering the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle and poured himself a tall glass of milk. Still in almost complete darkness he longingly took a gulp.
‘Nowt beats the taste of cold milk,’ he thought as he finished the last of it.
It was as he was rinsing the glass out in the kitchen sink that he noticed it his neighbors light on.
“He’s bloomin’ well up to something,” he mumbled before exiting the kitchen, “that light is on almost every night these days.” Fred made his way back up the pink carpeted staircase deep in thought. Returning to bed he grimaced at Hilda’s obnoxious continual snoring.
Fred lay there for a moment examining his wife illuminated by the pink cat figurine nightlight and stared at the large mole upon her chin. He tried to count, in vain, just how many black stubby hairs were forcing free from it.
“Twenty-seven years sleeping next to her.” He moaned under his breath as he finally closed his eyes and drifted back off to slumber.

* * *

The following night Fred suddenly awoke again.
As he always did he stared at the clock. 2:52.
“I am going to catch him!” He shouted out loud. Surprised at the sudden adrenalin which was now racing through his system.
Hilda sat upright.
“What?” She sneered. Her piggy eyes condemning him along with her screeching voice.
“You couldn’t catch a cold-bloody useless you are.”
She then returned her chubby red bloated face to her pillow and in a matter of seconds resumed snoring.
Fred got up and once more donned his dressing gown and slippers. A few minutes later as he finished his nightly glass of milk he saw that his neighbor’s light was once more on.
Feeling peculiarly empowered Fred marched out of this front door surprised at his own vigor. Not bothering to go down his driveway and up the other, he clambered over the fence. He swaggered up to his neighbor’s door and pounded firmly on it.
“I know what you are bloody doing! He hollered.
The light was quickly extinguished.
But Fred undeterred rapped his clenched fists even harder on the door and yelled.
“If you don’t open the door right now I am calling the police.”
This did the trick as within a few moments the door opened. Revealing his neighbor, Ernest, standing there in a long white overcoat, a hairnet, and rubber gloves. Red stains liberally adorned his unusual night time outfit.
The two men simply looked at each other for several seconds. Then Fred proceeded by pushing through the front door and into the kitchen with Ernie at his heels.
He saw it sitting on the counter, big silver and impressive; an industrial sausage machine. Right next to the wonderful contraption it he saw what looked like the remains of a human left foot.
Fred spoke first.
“I have got a proposition for you,” he whispered leaning into his Ernie.

* * *

One week later Fred awoke and cheerfully looked at the clock. 9:00.
He peered at the empty space beside him and grinned.
“I’ll think I’ll have some of those lovely sausages for breakfast again,” he said as he climbed out of bed, stretched lazily, and put on his dressing gown.

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