The Wee Finger

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man sacrifices his pinky to escape a life of convention and boredom.

Submitted: March 29, 2007

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Submitted: March 29, 2007

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 Jane is a friend of a trusted friend.  She is a phlebotomist and doesn’t ask questions.  Every Tuesday evening she comes to my place and draws a pint of blood.  The blood goes to my stockpile in the freezer.  This is the part that I like.  When she pours me a paper cup with orange juice.  We watch a quiz show.  She is smarter than me.  I encourage her to go on Jeopardy.  Jane requires me to rest a little while.  I tell her I’m fine.  Then we go to the pub and throw some darts and drink beer.  I like Jane.   A human male carries about twelve pints of blood in his body.  More or less.  Death is certain after an abrupt blood loss of nine pints.  Of course, I’m only losing a pint a week.  Spread out over months, I don’t feel a thing.  The trick is the splatter patterns.  The patterns need to be credible.  The blood splatter experts can tell the difference.  Jane and I have developed this flinging technique using a sponge and a soup ladle.  I toss in a few of my hairs plucked from various parts of my body.  Jane helps me with the drag marks.The sight of blood doesn’t bother her.The wee finger is the scary part but it’s a necessary loss to the overall scheme.  It closes all doubt on the case.  I’m just going to be really pissed if they don’t find the finger and the appendage sacrifice is for nothing.  Sometimes those detectives are lazy.  Or distracted.  Surprisingly, there can be lots of sexual tension at the crime scenes.  They might not even recognize their feelings as such. We pour a pint of blood down the kitchen sink.  Then we stuff the wee finger into the garbage disposer, an InSinkErator® three-horsepower waste express disposer.  With an InSinkErator® food waste disposer in your kitchen, bones, fruit rinds, napkins, placemats, jelly packets, corn cobs and more can go right in the sink, where they’re pulverized and liquefied to flow effortlessly into your sewer. You enjoy a cleaner food preparation area and less bagged garbage cluttering your home.  The system can process 300 pounds per hour. Next we switch on the disposer for twenty seconds.  We chase it with another pint then leave the facet to drip.  I make my way quietly out of the country in a series of borrowed cars and bus rides.The coroner will discover stray red hairs and clumps of dander and a bit of scalp and a sliver of chewed fingernail.  Fingerprints are pressed everywhere.  Whorls and loops.  Deoxyribonucleic acid was sowed in every conceivable cranny. Spatter experts will study the bloodstains on the pear-patterned wallpaper in the bedroom.  Dry blood is pooled under the porte-cochere.  Hemoglobin will be scrapped from the bathtub grout, but there is no body.  There are industrial-duty janitorial supplies stashed about.  Muriatic acid, bleach, lye, trisodium phosphate.The police will check the basement freezer, finding only ground round.  Someone makes a bad joke about the ground beef not being beef, and the press picked up the rumor.  The headlines scream “Cannibalism in Calgary.”  The police search the yard on hands and knees.  From the garbage disposer, they pluck a masticated finger and place the appendage in a zip-lock baggie.  I am so grateful that they find my pinky.


© Copyright 2018 Vic Monchego. All rights reserved.

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