Page 86 of Dirty Dancer

Crumpling like the broken and discarded toy she’d become, the nurse hit the floor at my feet. Exhaling, I glanced down at her. Yes. That was much better.

So much better.

“I’m keeping the phone.” It was still in my room and I glanced at the kid. He just nodded, then gave me a thumbs up.

“What are you going to do with her?” He didn’t care. Not about her. It was a kind of curious question. A solid one really.

I glanced down at her again. Couldn’t keep her in here. She would definitely stink the place up. Besides, I didn’t like her. This space might be a shitty space, but it wasmyspace.

After pocketing the phone, I dragged her up and over my shoulder. Dead weight or not, she was hardly a burden. The keys that jangled in her pocket gave me another shiver of pleasure.

This was definitely a good day. “They have drain cleaner here,” I told him. It had been a while since I dissolved a body. Entertainment for hours.

After closing up my room, I headed down the hall toward the maintenance closets. They keptallthe cleaning supplies down here. Very helpful.

“Bodhi?”

Pivoting, I faced the kid but kept moving as I walked backwards. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Not my best work.” I grinned, touching two fingers to my brow. The kid didn’t linger. Probably good. Dissolving bodies was a gruesome business.

At least this chick was bony, less body fat to worry about. Humming, I made my way down the darkened hallway. Phone. Keys. Dead body.

Definitely my lucky day.

STAPLED (ALTERNATE POV)

STAPLER

Not much to say about my life, really. It started where most lives start—a factory. I was all bits and bobs. They put them together, then bing, bong, bam, Bob’s your uncle and I’m a stapler. Made it through quality assurance, inspection, got branded with the company logo and then whisked off to a life of darkness for who the fuck knows how long.

Eventually, I ended up in some office supply store with scores of others. Most of them were my kind, but there were a few others—you know the ones that aren’t industrial strength. They’re more civilians. Sleek. Sweet. Pretty.

Yeah, they left faster than me, but this was my lot and I was stuck in it until a mass purchase came in. Then a whole cadre of us were shipped off somewhere else.

That was my life before the jackoff who ran this joint put me on his desk. Why do I call him a jackoff? Well, let’s put it this way—I’veseenthings. Like really, bad things.

Can we leave it at that? Cause talking about it is just gonna make me ill and I’ll be spitting bent staples for days. Then someone will bangmeon the desk like that’s supposed to make me work better.

Trust me, no one banged onthisdesk ever seems better for the experience.

Right, so, been on the desk for a hot minute or year—years. I dunno, I can’t tell time. Clock does that and he’s a grouchy bitch that periodically just stops to make someone tickle him and put his hands in the right place. The calendar changes regularly enough that the latest one doesn’t even sit on the desk.

Fact was, I didn’t know where that calendar was kept. Elitist bastard.

But I digress…

I’ve been on this desk awhile. I’ve seen some shit. Kind of glad staplers don’t need therapy, pretty sure no one would believe me. Cause, truth is always stranger than fiction.

Right, back to the subject. I’ve buried my staples in scores of papers, banged them good and hard. Secured them. Then sat there ignored for what seemed like forever.

I was there the first time she was in his office.

Then the second.

Thankfully, nothing really worth commenting on happened then. The third time though? That was enough to make a stapler wish it could be tossed out a window.

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