Page 88 of Mayhem and Minnie

While I admit it was fun while it lasted, now that I have to clean up and cut him into pieces, I’m almost…reluctant.

It’s late. Minnie seems to have gone to bed too.

Maybe I can wrap this up quickly and get some hours of sleep as well.

Going to my tool cabinet, I grab a medium-sized saw and head back to Paul.

Let’s see if he’s still alive after that cement soup.

As I reach his side, I note that his dick has fallen off. The cement was too heavy for the skin holding it together, so gravity did its thing.

Pauly, too, shows no signs of life.

I check his pulse.

Nothing.

His abdomen is distended. His neck, too, is solid to the touch.

I just hope the cement won’t make it harder for me to cut his body.

Plugging the saw in, I start with the bottom. First are his feet, which I cut at the ankle. Easy enough.

Then I slowly work my way up.

Even with how tired I am, the sound of the saw is music to my ears as it cuts through Paul’s bones. Blood splatters all over my gown and goggles, and I smile at the result of my work.

I dump the cut body parts in a bucket at my feet, which fills just as I dump the thighs inside. All that’s left is the torso and his head, but it seems I’ll need a new bucket.

Taking a small break to find another bucket, I glance again at the monitor to see what Minnie’s up to—or mostly to watch her sleeping.

I stop dead in my tracks.

She’s not in bed. In fact, she’s not in her room.

I grab my phone and go through the different cameras in the house in an attempt to locate her. And when I see where she is, true horror grips me.

She’s in the basement—in the furnace room. She’s looking around, her expression tense. Slowly, she raises her eyes and looks straight at the camera.

Panic unlike I’ve ever known swells inside of me, and I quickly scramble to hide all the evidence.

It doesn’t matter that there’s a huge block of steel separating us. The mere thought that she might find out the truth about me and decide to leave me makes me act irrationally.

I cover the bucket with Paul’s lower body with a towel, and I dump his torso into another bucket without bothering to cut it up some more—she might hear the sounds of the saw.

But that’s more difficult than I imagined. Instead of going in smoothly, I have to cram it inside, using my weight to push against it. Just when I think I’ve made some progress, a loud crack erupts in the air and his neck snaps.

Paul’s head rolls on the floor.

Fuck!

I run after it, grab it, and stuff it back in the bucket before covering it with another towel.

Then there’s the mess on the floor.

That’s a lot of blood.

I won’t be able to clean that up in time.

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