American Cycle - How I Killed Duncan Jenkins
Jenkins and I were sipping Finlandia martinis in a hip new bar downtown. I was on my second, but I’d been sure to make sure that Jenkins never had an empty glass. He was now on his fifth, and I’d spiked this one with a couple of valium pills. Slurring by the time he was on his third, he was wearing Oliver Peoples prescription glasses. ’I’m biopic in my right eye, but I need varied vocals in my left lens,’ he explained.
Tastelessly, his socks, bought for $50 from Barney’s, were too short and exposed calf flesh before being covered by structured linen Gucci slacks. For a moment, I fantasised about biting into his leg, feeling raw flesh before my teeth squeaked against his tibia. I was only broken from my murderous daydream when he said, ‘Netherton, I’ve never really rated your #tatical noose, but you’re not too bad at the Surreal Football stuff.’
Either the valium or the surfeit of alcohol in his veins took hold at this point, and he could barely hold his head up. I made excuses to the maitre d’, apologetically pressing a fifty dollar bill into his hand as I simultaneous propped Jenkins up, and escorted him to a taxi. I told the driver to take us to Paul Owen’s apartment, which I’d been using since I killed those two parody account tweeters last Thursday. I think their bodies were still in the bath, or at least what I hadn’t microwaved and eaten.
When we arrived, I left Jenkins in Paul Owen’s two thousand dollar leather arm chair, and in his state, he was able to prop himself up on the glossy upholstery. He picked up and then clumsily dropped one of the many copies of Four Four Two and Blizzard I’d covered the floor with. ‘I’m so drunk. I’m loosing my handy coordination.’ he stuttered.
I went to the cutlery draw, the exquisite granite work surface matching the draw handle, the chrome exterior it was attached to tastefully buffed and unmarked, and took out the machete I’d purchased at lunchtime, between gym visits.
Creeping behind him, probably unnecessary in his stupor, I held the weapon high and with all my force, brought it down, into him.
‘You’ve hit the carrot artery!’ He squealed as hot plasma arced from his neck. Seconds ago, Jenkins’ neck was unmarked and efficiently pumping blood around his one-joke body. Now the neck was about to be the last frontier of his body, as I stood with a machete, ready to render torso and skull unarguably discrete.
He looked up at me with eyes betraying real animal panic, though blood had largely obscured the vision in his left eye, the weak blinks being unable to shift the surprisingly dark red sufficiently. You don’t expect blood to burst out of the body, but this was my first time with this particular method of execution. ‘Please, we can talk about this, I don’t deserve to die just because of a difference of onions!’ I was surprised he was able to beg with such clear diction.
He fell to the floor. I stamped on his nose, and in little under a minute, his mangled face was breathless. Jenkins had choked on his blood under my gaze.
Using the machete in a silence broken only by the squelch of the four disciplined blows needed to remove his head, I wondered if I could still make the last table at Dorsia. My Yves Saint Laurent double-breasted wool suit was sticky with parts of Jenkins - some skin had been flicked into the breast pocket, looking like a chicken skin handkerchief used to arrest a nosebleed.
It didn’t matter, I had another four suits in the closet, along with the preserved head of The Big Sam.