The Confession of the Mayo Killer by Thurman Hart

First thing is this: You didn’t catch me. You aren’t smart enough to catch me. I gave up. I confessed. That’s it. Make sure you get it right.

Second thing is this: I have regret. I mean it. I really feel bad about killing those people. Except that first guy, but that’s different, because he deserved it. But the other six? Okay, yeah, maybe some more than others, but I have regret.

You want me to run through them? Fine. Take notes, because I’m not doing this twice.

So, I’m standing there at Kelly’s Deli. Old Man Cassidy from down the corner is in front of me, because he’s fuck-all in front of me when I’m in a hurry. And he’s got his old man hands on his old man hips staring up at the sign that hasn’t changed in twenty years with his old man eyes.

“What looks good?” he asks Kelly.

“It all looks good,” Kelly says back. “Just tell me what you want. I’ll make it special for you.”

This is all horseshit from both of them. Everyone knows Cassidy is going to order a ham and cheese on rye, lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar. You know why they know that? Because he orders it every damn day. And he says the same thing to Kelly, who says the same thing back. I could cut in and answer, but I don’t. You know why? I’m not an asshole. That’s why.

Anyways, I’m standing there, and it hits me. The old man just needs to die. He’s had a long life. Maybe happy, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that, if he dies, he won’t be in my way asking his stupid question. Well, he won’t be in anyone’s way really. Because he’s dead. You see it, right?

It was like the skies opened up and God Himself touched me with this special mission. Who am I to refuse God? So, I just did what I was told. That’s it. Following orders. Well, more like a suggestion. If you press me, I’ll say it was little more than an inkling, but it was there. And who’s going to refuse the Big Man? Not me.

Also, I want to say that I didn’t enjoy killing Old Man Cassidy. I did it quick, so he didn’t suffer. He shit his pants, though. Well, the bed. That was later, though.

So, I’m standing there, realizing that I’ve just uncovered the reason why I was put on earth, and this guy behind me that I’ve never seen before laughs. I turn to see if he’s laughing at me and, if so, then why. He isn’t laughing at me. He’s staring at Cassidy, but when I turn around, he looks at me and grins.

“I hope I have that much gumption when I’m his age.”

This guy happens to be Tom Wilson, but I don’t know it then. I had to follow him around, all secret like, for the better part of two weeks to find out who he was and where he lived. Turns out, he lives on D Street. Or did. Before I killed him. He was number four, if you’re counting.

“I don’t think you will,” I tell him. “You’ll be dead before you reach his age.”

It’s just the truth. But he frowns at me like I just lofted an egg fart. I’m looking back at him when the bell on the door jingles. When I look over, it’s the Delacruz lady from Seventeenth Street. She’s wearing one of those loud fucking flower dresses that really clings to her fat Mexican tiddies and wraps tight on that fat Mexican ass. Or Dominican. I forget. Either way, the dress is too small, and she looks like someone stuffed a ten-pound sausage in a five-pound bag.

“Oh, hi!” she says, grinning at me and waving both hands. Like we are besties or some shit. We’re not, just so you know. “Good to see you.”

“I suppose it is,” I say to her, and she looks like a dog trying to learn Russian.

I’m just about to turn around again when my nasal passages are violated by the stench of lilac. It’s the Delacruz lady. She always smells like she just crawled out of a bottle of Fabuloso. Anyway, just as I’m turning, Tom, who I still don’t know yet, covers his face with his sleeve.

“Christ,” he mumbles. “Can’t these people learn to blend in a bit?”

I look around and no one is saying shit to him. Maybe they didn’t hear. But I heard. I heard it clear. Even if I hadn’t already decided he would be after the old man, I would have put him on the list at that moment. But I didn’t have a list at that time, because I’d only just found out I’m supposed to kill people for God.

“How about you shove that racist bullshit up your ass?” I say to old Tom. Then I turn around and Kelly is staring hard at me. “What?”

“You could be a little nicer,” he says. “What kind of sandwich you want?”

“Turkey with provolone, extra mayo,” I say. “I want it fucking slathered with mayo. When I pick it up, I want it to shit mayo all over my hand.”

After I order, I walk down to where the sign says, “Pay here.” Carla is working the register, and she’s a real doll. I give her a smile.

“Here’s a twenty,” I tell her. “Get yourself something pretty.”

It’s supposed to be a joke. But Carla doesn’t get it. She gives me dead eyes and hands me back my change.

“Well, fuck me, I guess,” I says. “Even my money stinks like shit.”

I decide I’m going to do her, too. Because who turns down money like that? I take my receipt from her and pick up a pen next to the register. I start making a list on the back of it. This is going to be THE LIST. So, I write very carefully.

Old Man Cassidy for being a crochety bastard.

That tall bastard for being a prick and racist. (Tom, but I don’t know yet. Also, I don’t put his wife on the list because I don’t know I’m going to kill her yet.)

The Delacruz lady for stinking up the place with excess Fabuloso.

Carla for being a bitch.

I put down the pen and look at Carla. Then I look over to where Kelly is slathering my sandwich.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” I ask. He looks at me and I gesture at the sandwich. “You don’t expect me to eat that shit, do you?”

He looks at the sandwich and then at me. When he talks, he gestures with the knife in his hand like he’s stabbing the air between us.

“I’m putting extra mayo on your sandwich.”

“The fuck you are.”

His lip curls like he just shit his pants.

“You said you want extra mayo.”

“I want extra mayo,” I said. I point at the big jar on the counter next to him. “That’s fucking Miracle Whip. You can’t put that on food. It ain’t right.”

“It’s the same shit!” he snarls. He slams my sandwich back together and wraps it. “Take your sandwich and get the fuck out of here! And don’t come back!”

I look at the sandwich. I look at Carla. I turn and look at Tom even though I don’t know his name yet.

“First of all, I’m coming back here tomorrow,” I tell him. “There’s three places open for lunch around here. There’s Ching-Chang Whatever that serves up cat meat. There’s Mario’s that makes pizza. And there’s you. I want a sandwich, I come here. I don’t want no cat sandwich and I don’t want no Eye-talian garlic sweat on my bread, neither.”

Kelly puts his hand on his hip and starts his death stare. It ain’t bad. But I went to Catholic School, and the glare he gives is barely more than a kindly glance from one of the good Sisters of Sadistic Learning.

“Second,” I continue, ignoring his glare. “I ain’t taking that sandwich. You put that Miracle Whip shit on it. Fuck you and fuck that. In fact, fuck the Kraft company for fucking up beautiful mayo and turning it into that shit in a jar.”

I watch him unwrap the sandwich and scrape the Miracle Whip off with his knife blade, flinging it at the trashcan. Mostly, he makes it in the trash. But not all of it.

“There,” he says. “You got no Miracle Whip on your sandwich. You happy?”

“I’m not,” I say. “Thank you for asking. That bread is contaminated. You have to throw that out.”

Kelly looks at Tom. I look at Tom. Tom looks at Kelly, then turns to look at me. He shrugs. I shrug. I look at Kelly.

“I ain’t throwing out no bread,” he says. “You take this sandwich and get the fuck out of here!”

“You kiss your mom with that dirty mouth?” I ask. “I’m not taking the fucking sandwich. Give it to this jerkwad.”

I hook my thumb at Tom. He looks confused.

“I don’t like turkey,” he says.

“And I don’t like corndogs,” I tell him. “No one cares. Take the fucking sandwich.”

Kelly storms up to the counter and punches a fat finger at the cash register. He takes the twenty out and hands it to me.

“Get the fuck out!” he says, all soft like he’s crazy. “Or I’ll break you in half.”

I look at the change that Carla gave me. I look at the twenty.

“You,” I tell Kelly. “You can’t do this to people. You can’t substitute Miracle Whip for mayo. It’s inhumane.”

“I said get out!”

I guess I’m having pizza for lunch. Anyway, I turn around and hand the change that Carla gave me to the Delacruz lady. Because fuck Kelly, I’m not giving it back to him, but I’m not thief. So, I play Robing fucking Hood.

“Shove this between your tiddies,” I tell her. Then I turn back to the cash register. “Can I borrow your fucking pen for a moment?” I ask.

Kelly hands it to me. I write his name at the top of the list.

“See you soon, asshole,” I tell him.

So, you see – that first one was completely justified. But the others… yeah, I guess I feel bad about them. You could call it remorse.

Who the fuck puts Miracle Whip on a sandwich?

Thurman Hart

Image by silvio alberro from Pixabay – sandwich in sliced bread with much filling and mayo or maybe Miracle Whip – who knows!