Moon Mad

Vivian Caninus stomped forward. Her eyes were ravenous. Jamie trembled in her chair, dropped the iPhone on the table, and raised her hands above her head. She did this because that’s what she saw people in Netflix shows do. She’d also seen actors put their phones on silent and hit the emergency button, calling out to 911. 

“Think you can just waltz into my home and make a fool of me and my boy?!” Vivian yelled at Jamie, who was eyeing her iPhone on the table. 

“Is nobody going say it?” Jamie asked, seeing that Vivian was standing in front of the chair she’d recently pushed in. 

“Hey, you want to hear a joke?”

“Before I blow your brains out,” Vivian said. “Sure. Why not.” 

“How does the moon cut its hair?” 

Vivian rolled her eyes; she went to reply, and… WHAM! Jamie kicked the chair as hard as she could into Vivian’s legs. Vivian crumpled and lost her grip on the Luger. It clattered on the floor as Jamie broke her glass in half on the table; the mouth of the glass was a squat and jagged pike. She charged Vivian and thrust the cutter into her neck. Hot blood squirted out, splashing Jamie’s face. 

Vivian clawed at Jamie, trying to poke her in the eyes. Jamie turned her head to and fro, avoiding the pupil-gouging attack. She screamed into Vivian’s face, primal; it was the sound of diehard vengeance. Jamie twisted the glass clockwise. Vivian’s bulging eyes twitched, her arms weakened, and her face drained of color. Blood dripped off Jamie’s face. The red dots, like rain, fell into Vivian’s open mouth, stippling her teeth. Finally, her hands dropped to her sides, and Ms. Caninus gurgled her last breath. 

Jamie rolled off Vivian’s dead body and gaped at the ceiling from her back with tears in her eyes. Her sides were sore from the stamina needed to take a person’s life, and maybe she had broken a rib or two. She'd know for sure after the adrenaline fizzled out. 

“E-clips it,” Jamie said, “Get it? E-clips it.”  

She got back on her feet and patted the blood off her face with her shirt. The house was ghostly quiet. Suddenly, Jamie heard the ruckus of the garage door opening. Mr. Caninus was early to the dance. Shit. Fuck. Shit. The cafeteria’s daily special was undercooked pork, which sent Mr. Caninus home with a smarting belly and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Jamie stared at the Luger under the kitchen table. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to it. 

With the pistol in her possession, she read the name inscribed on the wooden handle: B. Garwaf. Jamie recognized it, but she wasn’t sure from where. The answer would have to wait; the door to the garage had opened and shut. Mr. Caninus was inside 3178, and Jamie could hear him breathing in the hallway. She gripped the Luger so hard Jamie swore she heard one of her ribs pop. 

Officer Archetti was the first responding officer to the “domestic disturbance” at 3178 Bates Street. When he pulled up to the home, he slammed on the brakes and put his cruiser in park. Archetti jumped out and unclipped his gun, all in the same motion. He called for backup when he saw the outline of a person who was in the fetal position.

Jamie was covered in blood, and bits of pink meat were clumped in her hair. A few feet from Jamie, the Luger was in a dormant rose bush. Archetti checked her pulse. It was faint, but it was there. 

“Stay with me,” Archetti said. 

He made her promise, and Jamie did in a voice that sounded weak as a kitten. 

Archetti looked at the front door of 3178 and saw it was ajar. Streaks of fresh blood trickled down it. He knew he had to go in and handed Jamie a pen to grip with both hands. 

“Hold that thing like your life depends on it,” Archetti said. “Keep your eyes open, and do not fall asleep, okay?” 

Jamie nodded and faintly said, “Okay.”

Officer Archetti kicked the front door back and poked his head in. The was pitch black. He crossed his flashlight over his gun. A few strides into 3178, and Archetti stepped in something soft and gooey. His eyes tilted down. It was a tiny pile of brains. Archetti scanned, stopping on Mr. Caninus; he was face down in a pool of blood, and a chunk of his skull was missing. 

Archetti kneeled and probed for a sign of life. Mr. Caninus was already cold. Outside, Archetti could hear the sirens of the cavalry coming. He walked on. 

Archetti entered the kitchen and saw Vivian's bloodstained body on the floor. On the table, something glinted in the light shining in from the patio door. He walked to the table and saw two rings on a piece of yellow legal paper. They looked like engagement rings but lacked the wow factor. Archetti noticed that someone had written a message. He leaned over the note and read it to himself, “These rings belonged to Suzy Fallon and Kirk Wendle. The old bitch was wearing them. Check my social media to verify. I also have a picture on my phone. The passcode is 182281. I sent the beast to Hell. To All a Good Night, Jamie McCauley.” 

 Archetti returned to Darcy Caninus’s body and eyed a lump around the buttocks. Presumably, it was a diaper full of shit, but there was no whiff of it in the air. Archetti glanced out the front door; officers were busy helping Jamie. He drummed his fingers against his badge and deliberated… sent the beast to Hell… 

Archetti removed his tactical knife and cut a line down the yoke of Mr. Caninus’s pants. He ripped the fabric apart and staggered back when a furry tail jumped out at him. Fuck! Archetti dusted off the scare and saw it was a dog’s tail. Darcy Caninus, with a helping hand from his mother, had sewed it to the skin around his tailbone. 

In the attic of 3178, dozens of microcassette tapes would be found and boxed up and entered into evidence by the police. Months later, on a gray day in March, the recordings were played at the Harveston Police Station for a small pool of reporters. Archetti called in sick that day and visited Jamie. He had a gift for her. Two promise rings.