COLD CUTS COLD CUTS B y R o b e r t P a y n e C a b e e n Omnium Gatherum Los Angeles Cold Cuts Copyright© 2017 Robert Payne Cabeen ISBN-13: 978-0997971767 ISBN-10: 0997971762 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher omniumgatherumedia.com. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. First Edition For Cecile Bones in a basement, a snake in a tree, a rock on the moon, a ghost in the sea, a face in a crowd, a rip in a sheet, rust on a statue, a dog in the street. Everything is somewhere, so where are you now? So Sad Man A pernicious sadness squirmed into the man’s bones and wormed its way deep into his icy marrow. The only emotional shard that remained of his shattered psyche was sorrow. The sad man strained against his bonds, more out of habit than any real hope of breaking free. He unclenched his teeth, and gasped for breath. Nylon cord, cinched tight to his cot, restrained him, but the weight of his deranged captor crouch- ing on his chest was the primary cause of his worsening asphyxia. The maniac squealed with each desperate heave of the sad man’s chest. He leered down at his flailing victim, wagging his gnarled finger in the man’s face. He ranted on and on about imaginary plots hatched in the fever of his delirium. The sad man turned his head to avoid the noxious shower of rancid spit spattering his face with each wild accusation. As his crazed captor’s tirade droned on, the sad man tried to find his happy place. He had quite a few, but his happiest place was the alley behind Dixon’s donut shop where he had his first kiss with Emily Stone. It was the only place happy enough to transport him away from the horror he had endured for so long. The sad man clinched his eyes shut and found himself in the alley with Emily. She was so mysterioso, kinda witchy, with the morbid allure of Lydia from Beetlejuice. He loved the way she smelled. The scent reminded him of clove gum, lico- rice candy, and the flowers at his Aunt Vivian’s funeral. Emily pulled a jelly donut from a white, paper bag. It was obscenely oversized, deep-fryer fresh, dusted with powdered 7 Cold Cuts sugar, and oozing scarlet raspberry jelly. This wasn’t just any donut, it was a pure white dove in the hands of a bewitch- ing, dark angel, a concentrated offering. Emily raised it with reverence, and took a bite. Confectioner’s sugar rained down on her lacy black blouse. Without thinking, he brushed the powder off. Emily pressed his hand on her chest, and held it there. Her heart beat quick and strong. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. They were soft and warm, with a trace of powdered sugar and raspberries. It was his first kiss, and he wanted it to last forever. He ran the tip of his tongue across her raspberry lips—they parted— tongues touched. The vile taste of rancid fish assaulted his taste buds. The foul vapor of fetid breath rose in his throat, jolting him back to his cruel reality. The sad man’s eyes sprang open. A tongue flopped around in his maniacal captor’s slimy mouth—a herring in a sloshing bucket of chum. The acrid stench seared his nostrils. He jerked his head hard. His cervi- cal vertebrae protested with a series of bubble-wrap pops. The fiend’s pursed lips, resembled a prolapsed anus with rotting teeth. He made sickening smoochy sounds as he stroked his captive’s matted hair. The sad man laughed and cried, at the same time. A sardonic grin spread across the madman’s cadaverous face as he leaped from his captive’s chest. The sad man gasped a lung-full of stale, icy air. His tormentor circled the perimeter of the frigid, tomb- sized, room like a caged beast. The human monster scanned his surroundings, spied a large medical kit, and pounced on it. It was the kind a field surgeon would use. He riffled through its contents, and muttered to himself as he organized an omi- nous assortment of surgical devices on the cold concrete floor. Neat little piles of sterile packages fanned out in a semi- circle at the maniac’s feet. Their unwholesome purpose was a mystery to the sad man, but one thing was certain—what- ever it was, it was going to hurt. A foreboding orthopedic saw 8 Robert Payne Cabeen took center stage in the sinister display. Its sharp, serrated teeth clearly had an appetite for flesh—and so did the mania- cal fiend. The maniac’s crazy eyes burned wild in their hollow sock- ets. He glared at the sad man, licked his hideous lips, and chortled with inhuman glee. 9 Cryptic Communication Frank Sayer sat at one of the mismatched Formica tables in the lunchroom and stared out the only window as he jabbed at a vending machine salad with a plastic fork. He looked over the heads of the jabbering staff and gazed out the window at a seagull perched on a sign outside the entrance of a single story industrial complex in Santa Cruz, California. The sign on a dead grass covered berm read: Environmental Defense International. The gull scanned the parking lot. It dove on a greasy, paper bag and scavenged a single, ossified French fry. The bird danced on the hot asphalt, in the narrow space between a late model Prius and an older BMW, that hadn’t been washed since the first season of “The Walking Dead.” The gull rooted around inside the bag for another fry, pulled out a ketchup packet, pecked at it a few times, and flew away. Sayer poked at the baby greens in his salad. The ranch dressing turned pink. Fucking beets. I’d just as soon eat dirt. He pulled on his collar to loosen his tie, and swallowed an unappetizing bite. What he couldn’t swallow was the EDI board’s mandate he start dressing his age. Sayer’s flesh crawled inside his generic, blue suit. The organization he started in faded 501’s and hiking boots had become a bloated, non-profit corporation with more money than passion. He scanned the library-quiet lunchroom. His employees hunched over their cell phones while they ate. Occasionally, a muffled chuckle or a muted gasp broke the unsettling hush. Sayer longed for the days when the room would have 10 Robert Payne Cabeen reverberated with impassioned discussions about the envi- ronment and political action. Why do I still do this? All these years. All the ranting about climate change—and then it did. We changed too. These kids still care. They do their jobs, but they’re numb. I’m numb too. Every year it’s the deadliest hurricane on record, the worst fucking flood—the biggest wildfire. I’m gettin’ too old for this shit. Fast footfalls echoed in the hallway outside lunchroom. Terra Perez bounded through the door, set her briefcase down, and said, “Okay, guys, it’s almost time.” She dragged a rickety table under a wall-mounted television and hoisted a chair on top. She climbed up the wobbly contraption, and switched the TV on. Terra radiated the kind of enthusiasm that gave Sayer hope for the future of EDI. Sometimes, he had to dial her back a bit—but not too much. She made him feel more like a stern father than a boss, or at least what he imagined what it would feel like if he were somebody’s father. She reminded him of a Mayan maiden disguised in a smart business skirt. She was sexy, but didn’t seem to know it. Terra looked young for her age, and at the same time much older. Maybe it was the con- trast between her black pixie cut hair and her determined, dusky, umber eyes. The young woman fiddled with a loose cable on the old TV. Two L.L. Bean poster boys, Brad and Chad, sat at a nearby table. Their pastel, plaid shirts were prep school approxima- tions of what environmentalists might wear. They enjoyed their view of Terra’s practical panties a little too much. “Now, there’s one for the upskirt museum,” Brad said scrunching his face mock agonized lust. He raised his cell phone to film Terra’s posterior for posterity, as she balanced on the rickety chair like an acrobat. Chad nodded. “No shit. You getting this?” He mirrored Brad’s expression. Fucking idiot donor’s spawn. The things we have to do for money. 11 Cold Cuts “Oh yeah. This is gonna go viral.” “Terra, come down from there.” Sayer said, sounding like a high school principal. Terra scrambled down and sat next to Sayer. Brad and Chad continued to ogle Terra. Sayer whispered in Terra’s ear and told her what the guys were up to. Her eyes narrowed, and she stormed over to the pervy prepster’s table. She slapped the palm of her outstretched hand, “Give it to me.” Brad snickered to Chad, “That’s what she said.” Terra folded her arms, “Hand it over, Brad.