Page 32 of Bake the Town Red

Chocolate mint and cinnamon scents are everywhere, leaking out of the man’s nostrils and onto his lips. His chin. The front of his shirt.

Do I stop? Hell no. I squeeze harder.

My lips curve into a sneer as Gunner’s first tears show. He shakes his head, a forceful movement that’s meant to get me off him.

He’d like that.

I would not.

My laugh is harsh and cruel. I think I’m cackling.

More frosting everywhere. Splashing on the black tarp. On Gunner’s jeans.

The whites of Gunner’s eyes turn red as the veins in them explode. A second before his mouth opens and a scream bursts out of it, along with a little bit of frosting that has traveled up his nose.

“Stooooop,” he shrieks. “For fuck’s sake, stoooooop.”

“My pleasure.” I discard the bags, fishing out my scissors. “My”—taking advantage of his panicked state, I lock his tongue between my thumb and index finger—“fucking”—pull ittight, and—“pleasure.”

Snap.

Blood gushes out in rivers. Kind of like he’s vomiting it.

“Cool.” I tilt my head, marveling at the gruesome sight while dangling his tongue in his face. “Would you look at that, Gunner? You added strawberry topping to my cinnamon and chocolate mint frosting. Fits perfectly.”

He’s less impressed than I am. Doesn’t stop screaming and shaking his head.

“Shit. Something’s missing.”

He gurgles and I leave him for the extra sprinkles container that waits for me on top of the table. The gurgling sounds change, and I whip my head back to check he hasn’t fainted.

Nope, no fainting. Just vomiting his dinner. Too bad. I bet one of the girls worked hard on that.

Oh, well. Back to the last part of my torture for the night.

The sprinkles container. And a funnel.

“Found it,” I exclaim cheerfully, unscrewing the top of the container. “This is what’s missing from our human cupcake. The Happy DeathDay sprinkles.”

Gunner is seizing. Vomiting and rattling in the chair.

Seizing isn’t dead.

I shove the neck of the funnel into Gunner’s mouth, tipping his face up to the ceiling. The sprinkles container is a bit heavy to hold in one hand, but I manage.

“Much better.” The sprinkles go down the funnel, rushing down Gunner’s throat. “This is the missing piece. You’ll make the best cupcakeandyour filthy mouth will get punished. Two for one.”

While I hum the chorus of Elliot Lee’s song “Sicko,” I shake my hips, pouring an extra dose of sprinkles into Gunner’s mouth. “All you can eat, right?”

The fucking miserable excuse of a human dies shortly after that. His body ejects the excess sprinkles, blood, and puke when I remove the funnel.

I laugh as I release him. Keep singing to myself as I place him on the tarp and begin the task of removing his clothes, then skinning him. Each patch of Gunner’s skin goes into the bowls for the sweet, stray dogs.

There are five of them. Coco, Nilla, Cookie, Butter, and Scotch. My little helpers who annihilate the evidence of someone other than me were ever here.

After years of doing this, I’m skilled at peeling meat off bones.

Gunner’s bones go to the freezers in the basement below the shop. The meat goes into the commercial freeze dryer so it’d be easy to grind it into powder tomorrow morning.

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