Peeping Bomb

Let me also be clear that I’m not the most attractive man: gray hair, the scars on both cheeks from my father. We’ll just say my success in social clubs remains negligible. In hind sight this worked to my advantage with the hospital. Walking through the archway and into the lobby, the nurses and security gave me no more than a glance of caution. You know, that quick peek followed by a long stare and a whisper to a person near you. I read it on all their faces: “Hobo Alert.”

They didn’t know that I was finding the sweet spot. Any building has it. That one area where a precise detonation will bring down the house, pardon the pun. The large pillars and sculpted walls lead me deeper into the building. I noticed more and more that all the weight in the foundation was shifted toward the center of the complex. My hands began to sweat against the hot surface of the thermos. Could those idiot architects have made it that easy?

A janitor was mopping the floor towards the back halls. I could smell the cleanser mixed with whatever contents a patient had decided to vomit, meat pasta perhaps. The shotgun flecks of noodle and chewed meat mixed with the green pus of stomach bile were clear indications. The poor man had a mask over his face. His hair was uncombed and he gagged with each swipe across the black tile. I saw the name tag: KAYSER in big, blue letters.

Finished, he turned his back to me and rolled his yellow bucket down the hall. He stopped at a plain brown door and stepped inside. I almost shouted at him to stop. He had just walked in to the apex room. It was my ground zero, the perfect place to put my wart remover in the thermos and now it was occupied like some airline lavatory. No. I couldn’t wait. It needed to be now. Abigail and Zeus would not abide by tardiness. Fishing my hand into the opposite pocket away from the thermos, I slipped inside.

Kayser wheeled on me when hearing the door slam. He mumbled something in a foreign language. I grabbed him by the hair. It’s long and greasy. I pulled back, saw his Adams apple. Starting just below his left ear lobe, I dragged a switchblade along his throat just below the bulge of the apple. This was very important so as to cut off his wind pipe and prevent any screaming. His eyes were wide. The wound opened and closed on the neck, almost like a goldfish brought forth from his bowl. Tequila is the scent I’m getting from the last wheeze out of his mouth. I wasn’t used to doing this. Being a graveyard watchman was a boring profession and grew so tedious at times that I would practice all the self-defense techniques the drill instructors pounded into me in basic training. It didn’t matter: pillows, cushions or store mannequins. None of that prepared you for the real thing.

A stream of blood shot out of an artery and hit me in the cheek. I went to wipe it before I realized I still held the knife. The blade gouged a half-inch gash under my husky eye. Another scar. I finally released Kayser’s hair and let him drop to the floor. It was on this day that I learned just how much blood circulates through the human neck. Like a busted dam it spewed forth onto the floor, pooling near the crack at the bottom of the door. Grabbing his mop I kept the crimson flow at bay for fifteen minutes, making sure it didn’t slip under the door and ruin everything by summoning security at the screams of some new intern who’d never seen blood in a hospital before. I wiped the sweat away from my brow and used a towel on a near shelf to clean my cheek wound. I took the thermos out of my jacket and set it on a shelf on the wall in front of a heating vent. Should I say something before doing this? Nah. A thermostat was perched next to the door. Waving goodbye to Scooby, I jacked up the heat to the maximum. Two minutes.





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