“You’re gonna what?”
“You heard me, you’re not fucking deaf are you?”
She told him she was going to cut off his dick when they finished their meal. He had prepared the steak himself, and when she came over they sat down to eat and talk about their day. It was like any other day, but when she told him she was going to cut off his dick, everything changed.
“What are you talking about?” he laughed, forking another bite-sized piece of meat and lifting it to his mouth. He halted it when she spoke.
“Just what I said, Tom. I’m going to cut your dick off and there’s no way you’re going to stop me.”
Tom looked at the morsel on his fork, the redness in the middle, the way he liked steak, medium rare with a little blood still in it. He looked up at her and stuck the meat in his mouth and chewed, slowly, his eyes set on hers. She said nothing in return, just stared back; she had finished her plate, so she waited for him to do the same. Then the mayhem would begin.
He finished chewing and set his fork beside his plate, which still had leftover food in it, some corn and mashed potatoes, a couple of still unforked cuts of steak.
“Cynthia,” he said, trying to force a smile but failing, “I don’t know why you’re saying this, I mean, what…are you unhappy about something, was there something I did wrong, I mean…what…tell me what you mean, I really don’t understand what—“
“Tom. Shut the fuck up. Are you done? With your food? Which, by the way, was lousy as fuck. The steak sucks ass just like you do. I ate it all just to be polite, what my mother taught me to do when people invite you over for dinner, even if they’re total assfucks. And yes, Tom, you are a fucking assfuck. Do you understand what I’m saying, Tom? I spent all day thinking about this, believe me. Like, do I really want to cut his dick off? Do I? Does he qualify? Is he material? Like the others were?”
Tom gaped at “the others” – he stared at her and said nothing.
She continued as if she were speaking about a shopping day at the mall. “Really, Tom, there was a moment or two when I thought against it. I was like, well, if I cut off Tom’s dick then he can’t fuck me like he wants, he can’t get that fucking cock inside me anymore and oh my god what would he do then? Because as you know, Tom, that’s why I’m even with you, right? That’s why we’re together. So you can fuck me and make me lousy steak dinners and take me to movies that suck so much fucking ass they smell worse than yours when you shove your cock in my mouth. So yeah, before I came over tonight I decided you were finished. Well, I guess the better phrase would be I was finished. And I am, Tom. Finished. With my lousy fucking meal you so kindly made and with you. It’s time, Tom. Your dick will soon be severed and your blood will match the steak’s. Except of course you have human blood and not that of a cow. But for all practical purposes, Tom, you are a cow. Moo for me. C’mon, Tom, I’m serious! Moo for me! I wanna hear you fucking MOO!”
He couldn’t speak, much less verbalize what she wanted. She grabbed her fork and stabbed his cheek, reaching across the table, which was large enough for two, and stabbed him, the fork tines leaving four marks inches from his left eye. Tom grabbed his face and screamed and she forked his other cheek. She crawled up on the table and grabbed his hair and stabbed the fork in his neck, but not deep enough to cause arterial damage, just enough to make him paralyzed with fear and pain and shock. She knocked him backwards then, pouncing on top of his chest, the fork in her fisted hand, then stabbed his hands as he tried to grab at her. She stabbed hands and arms until he stopped the grabbing then stabbed his chest repeatedly. She tore his shirt open, buttons flung to the side, pinging on the hardwood, and stabbed him some more until he was in a deep enough state of shock that he couldn’t move.
“Tom,” she said, her tone mild, as if speaking to a child. “You should have known I would do this. I guess you’re not very perceptive, are you? All those times I didn’t laugh at your stupid fucking jokes, the way I would sneer at you in response. Yeah, and what about meeting your batshit crazy mother? Huh? Remember that? Yeah, of course you do. How she leered at me when I told her about my life – which she fucking asked me to talk about! – and how she took your side against me when you said I could do better? Um, Tom? What the fuck did you even mean by BETTER? I’ve been doing fine, thank you, so fuck better and fuck you and fuck your fucking mother! Fucking whore bitch cunt!”
Tom was breathing but the pain she had administered still had him rendered speechless, unable to speak intelligible words. He just lay there, his pants coming off by her hands, the bloodied fork beside his right calf, just out of his reach.
She got his pants all the way off and yanked down his boxers, a pair of blue and green striped ones she also abhorred: those colors made her sick for some reason. Maybe they reminded her of the sea, which was the one thing she would never enter. Fuck, even a swimming pool struck fear in her.
She had kept the steak knife she had used when they ate. She grabbed it from a rear jeans pocket and placed the serrated blade against his limp cock, pulling it straight up with the other hand and holding it still as she spoke again.
“Tom. Are you listening, Tom? I know you are, you fucking cunt. You fucking mama’s boy who can do no wrong, even if you killed somebody on the street or some shit. Your mama would take your side on that too, wouldn’t she? Well, I’m really tired of talking, Tom, and even more tired of you.”
She cut into his cock, which caused Tom to jolt and scream. He again tried to grab at her with his forked hands, the pain in them suddenly more excruciating now that he had been thrust into a higher state of consciousness, but she pushed the knife in deeper, sawing the serrated edge back and forth, cutting into the flesh of his cock, her other hand pulling at it harder, stretching it, cutting deeper, blood spurting and oozing onto her hands and his balls, the blade red with his blood, which she smiled at as she kept up the cutting of his cock, until finally, through all his screams and failed grabbing with his flailing hands, all his writhing and kicking with his legs, every attempt to make her stop a miserable and pathetic try, he fell silent and motionless but wasn’t dead. She could see his forked chest rising and falling, rising and falling, his mouth still agape, as if he were listening to her at the table, her words carefully considered and arranged just the right way for her purposes.
She held his dripping cock in her hands, severed as it was, and stood. She shook his cock like a wet rag, draining it until it dripped no more. She wrapped it in some napkins, some of them the ones he had used during the meal. His blood from where it had been still seeped out; his entire groin was a huge red mass. She studied his grimaced face for a moment then turned and walked out, dropping his severed penis in her purse.
When she got home, she prepared his cock with the proper preservative procedures, then opened the safe and counted: Twelve. Eight more to go and I’ll be done.
By Jeff Callico