Some Thoughts on "The Human Centipede"

(This contains some spoilers. If you’re going to watch the movie, you might want to skip this.)

A mad scientist abducts three people – one man and two women. He removes some of their teeth and stitches them together, grafting ass to mouth, in a chain. He also cuts the ligaments in their knees so they can’t stand up. The result is what he calls “The Human Centipede”. He shows us a drawing, depicting the gastric system going through all three people. This, it would seem, is his goal. He wants food to be eaten by person #1 digested and shat into person #2, who digests it and then shits it into person #3, who then digests it and shits it out.

The movie is surprisingly clean, arty, and simple – even while it’s disgusting and weird. There’s surprisingly little gore. It’s more the concept that’s horrifying.

There are a lot of familiar horror movie tropes here, but they’re well executed, and quick, getting us to the gross stuff. Two tourist girls driving through Germany have their car break down. They go up to a house, looking for help. Inside is a mad scientist who wants to do terrible things to them. Wait a minute -- is this The Rocky Horror Picture Show?

I get the feeling all of this standard horror movie schlock is meant to serve as an “envelope” for the disgusting concept in the middle. It’s all so familiar. So shouldn’t the human centipede ass-to-mouth madness feel familiar? No. Of course, it doesn’t feel familiar. It’s disgusting, and new, and insane. Which is why the movie is so controversial and getting so much attention.

The film delivers exactly what it promises, which surprised me. At the same time, it feels like there’s more here than is being shown. The big question, which is never really answered, is WHY? Why does a scientist, mad or otherwise, want to do this? Why make a human centipede?

There are hints. The mad doctor used to take Siamese twins apart; now he wants to put people together.

One of his victims yells out, are you getting a sexual thrill from this?

Looking at the doctor, he isn’t. Not really. We see a real pervert, early in the film. He’s fat. He waggles his tongue. He’s obvious and gross. He wants to fuck the two hot girls.

By comparison, our crazy doctor isn’t like that at all. He’s clean, fastidious, weird, isolated, and German. This isn’t about sex. This is about something else. There’s something weird in his head that he wants to bring to life. He’s an artist. He has a vision. And it would appear it has something to do with poop.

One of the doctor’s first victims is a trucker going off into the woods to take a dump. We see the doctor stalk the guy, and shoot him, even as the trucker is squatting to take a crap. This feels, oddly, like the director establishing a theme. And that theme is crap.

When the man who is segment one has to take a crap, he begs segment two for forgiveness. She realizes with horror that someone is about to shit in her mouth and she has no choice but to eat it.

“Feed her!” the doctor bellows in triumph to segment 1.

“Swallow!” he demands of segment 2.

Why is this exciting or important to the mad doctor? It doesn’t seem sexual. It seems more primitive than sex. It’s something psychotic and childish and Freudian. Yes, he wants to beat the centipede into submission, but only to fulfill his vision, his purpose.

But why poop? Why play with poop?

Everyone has an embarrassing family story about toilet training. One such story I heard is of a kid who wouldn’t poop on the toilet. He would only poop in his diaper. The kid refused to be potty trained. The frustrated parents asked a doctor for advice. The doctor explained that the kid thinks the poop is a piece of himself and doesn’t want to give it up. He doesn’t want it taken away, That’s why he will only poop in his diaper -- he gets to keep his crap.

The doctor’s solution: let the kid run around naked. That way, when he poops, it will just fall out of him and hit the ground. Thus the kid learns poop isn’t a part of him – it’s just waste.

In The Human Centipede, something similar is going on. Shit is food. Shit is power. Shit is magic. Shit needs to be held on to for as long as possible. The mad doctor wants to make a highway for shit to travel, so it stays inside for a long, long time.

As adult human beings, we have been taught that poop is disgusting and vile. We definitely shouldn’t play with it. Toilet humour is the lowest form of comedy there is. Using poop for horror is beyond offensive. It’s taboo. It’s psychologically forbidden. This is why "The Human Centipede" is getting such amazingly disgusted reactions from critics and audience members. The film is carefully treading into our most primitive memories.

Before the three people are stitched together, one of the women tries to escape. She is the hero o the story, sort of. The mad doctor is pleased by her feistiness. He tells her that her courage has proved to him that she gets the place of honour. She gets to be the middle segment.

What? Wait. Why is the middle the place of honour? Shouldn't that be the first segment, who doesn't have to eat crap?

What possible logic is at work here? Why is the middle position best? Is it because all her needs are met, without having to do any work? She is fed by the person in front of her. (Fed poop, mind you.) Her ass is automatically cleaned by the person behind her. Is this some sort of idyllic position for our mad doctor?

Some of you are reading this and thinking I’m the crazy one. Why ask why? The guy is nuts, he wants to stitch mouths to asses. He’s a pervert. That’s the end of it. This film is stupid and gross. Don’t dwell on it. Ew, ew, ew.

I think that’s entirely wrong. The weird thing about this film is that some primitive, Freudian part of us sees “poop magic” as normal. That’s why the film is so compelling. It takes the standard horror movie formula, and puts this demented shit-filled, Freudian centipede in the centre. It dares us to find it sick and weird, even as the movie is a fairly pedestrian horror film.

The ending is fascinating to me. It takes that middle segment place of honour and makes it truly disturbing and horrible. Segment 1 kills himself. Segment 3 dies of some kind of infection. That leaves the woman in the middle. She’s grafted to two corpses. No one will feed her. No one will clean up after her. She’s alone in the house. Everyone else in the story -- the doctor, two policemen -- is dead. The camera wanders away, panning up to the roof of the house, leaving her in that situation. The end.

The film left me with a lot to think about. There’s a lot going on. For example, the doctor is compared to God. Is he trying to create something perfect? At one point he gets excited at the idea of making a longer centipede, adding new segments. How far could he take this? Does he want to create some sort of society where everyone is linked together? Is this about bondage and beating, or about everyone “knowing their place”?

If you can get past the grossness, this is definitely a film worth seeing.

See Roger Ebert’s review.

Ugly Baby

I am an ugly baby. There's no denying this. At less than a month old, I have a huge double chin. My eyes are tiny black dots. I'm completely bald. My face isn't symmetrical. My left ear is an inch lower than the right. When I smile, people recoil from me as if slapped.

Most parents would overlook this. They usually can't tell they have an ugly child. Parents think their child is precious, beautiful -- simply because it's theirs. They coo, and they swoon, and they bore everyone by saying how wonderful their baby is.

My parents aren't like that. They find me embarrassing. They ignore me as much as possible. I spend most of my time in my crib, my diaper full of shit, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a rage so intense it cannot be expressed in words. Not that I can talk. I can think, but I can't speak. My vocal chords are underdeveloped. My tongue is not mine to control. Being a newborn, I can’t even manage "gaga".

But my thoughts are full of words. I don't understand it. Maybe it's proof of reincarnation. Maybe these words come from some past life, carried over into this new one. I have this vocabulary, in my head, to express all these feelings, but I can't get them out into the open.

"I hate the baby," mommy says.

"You don't mean that," daddy answers her.

"I do, John. I do mean it. I hate the way he looks. I hate the way he stares at me. He's not a bad baby, he never cries. But I just can't stand his face. And I think he hates me. I think he can tell I don't care for him. The way he stares at me, with his weird little insect eyes..."

"Deb, come on. Get a hold of yourself. It takes time to bond with a new child. It's not an instantaneous thing. Give it time. Now, I'm not saying you're suffering from postpartum depression or anything like that..."

"I am not depressed," mommy says firmly. "I feel fine. I'm happy. I... I just hate the baby."

They're silent for a moment.

"I hate him too," daddy admits quietly. "I hate saying it, but I do."

"You do?" mommy gushes with great relief. "Oh, thank god. Thank god. Maybe we just aren't ready to have kids. Maybe we need more time for ourselves. I don't know. I hate to say that we're simply too selfish to have children, but... We aren't ready. Is that it?"

"Maybe. Maybe that's it."

"I have a life. I have things I want to do. I can't be expected to take care of some ugly little fuck."

"Come on, Deb. Don't call him that."

"No. No, John. Let's be honest. Let's find out exactly where we stand, here. Do you want to take care of it?"

"Not really. I mean, just being near him… It makes me feel sick. But he's ours, and... We’ll just have to do our best. I guess."

"No. I simply won't stand for it. Something has to be done."

"Like what, Deb?"

Mommy says, quite slowly, "What if he had... an accident... of some kind?"

"Deborah! He's our child. What you're suggesting is..."

"I know what it is. Murder. There, I said it. I brought him into this world; I can take him out of it!" Then she laughs nervously. "That's what my mother used to say to me, when I misbehaved."

"Let me just... Let me just think about it," daddy says. "It's a pretty radical step."

"Well, don't take too long to think about it. I don't know how much longer I can stand him being here."

They have this conversation right in front of me, right above my crib. They assume I won't understand. Most babies wouldn't. But I do. I understand every single word and nuance.

Part of me wonders, are they right to hate me? Is there more to this than just my physical appearance? Is there some kind of taint, deep inside of me? Some sort of evil? Am I a monster? I was born ugly, yes. I can admit that. Is there a deeper ugliness? Am I morally deficient? Is my personality broken? Is there something wrong with me?

I've gone over it a million times. Besides being ugly, I seem decent enough. I'm pleasant. I hardly ever cry. I coo and gurgle the way a good baby is supposed to. Clearly I am far more intelligent than a normal child my age. What can I do to demonstrate my good intentions? What more am I capable of? For fuck's sakes, I can't even crawl yet.

It's them. Obviously, it's them. My parents are to blame. I am no monster. They're the monsters. They're the ones who brought a child into the world and then decided, because the baby is ugly, that it's a failure. They see me as an inconvenience, a bother. What superficial, stupid people. Couldn't they have planned ahead, recognized that a child isn't something you just bring into the world without giving the matter some thought?

They're the sort of couple who just do what's expected of them. They reached a certain age, and they got married. They bought a house. They had a child – they had me. They were stuck in that routine of the thoughtless. They looked to their friends, to see what they should be doing. And they aped what they saw – merely the external appearance, mind you. Because when you study your friends from a distance, trying to figure out what they're up to, all you get is the shiny surface, and none of the darkness underneath.

My mother takes up drinking, to cope. Bourbon, judging by the smell of it. She comes into my room with a tumbler full of her poison and rattles the ice cubes in her glass above my head.

"Who's an ugly baby?" she says, her voice slurring. "Who's a fucking horrible monster?"

That's how she greets me, her son.

I just stare up at her. Not smiling. Not moving. I just watch. It seems to make her nervous. I am a quiet, studious baby.

"Where's your daddy?" she asks me. "Do you know where your fucking daddy is? Is he having an affair with his secretary? Is he fucking some bimbo in an office boardroom somewhere? Is that where your fucking daddy is? I wouldn't put it past the bastard. That would be just like him, leaving me here with you."

Her cell phone rings. It's one of those smart phones, an iPhone. She answers it.

"Where the fuck are you? Of course I'm at home. Someone has to look after the living abortion. Don't give me that bullshit, John. You never worked late like this before we had the kid. Come on, John. You can't expect me to swallow this crap. You can't leave me alone with him. I thought we were going to do something about this. John. John! Come home. Talk to me. John?"

Daddy has hung up on her. She looks at the phone in disbelief, then goes to take a sip out of her glass. It's empty. With a sudden fury, she throws her tumbler against the wall and it explodes into shards.

For the first time in my life, I seriously consider crying out, weeping like a normal, frightened child. Instead, I clench my little fists. Some stupid part of me thinks I can win her over by being good. I'm a sucker.

"God damn it," mommy says. She slumps against the wall, and for a moment I think she is going to cry. She puts her smart phone on the railing to my crib and goes away. A few minutes later, she's back with a broom and dustpan. When she's done cleaning up the broken glass, she goes downstairs.

She's totally forgotten about her phone. I have it now, tucked away somewhere no one ever seems to look -- inside my diaper.

Daddy comes home a few hours later. There's an argument downstairs. I hear sounds, yelling, then nothing. As they come up the stairs, I hear daddy say:

"Can we discuss this tomorrow? I’ve had a long day."

"You've had a long day? You left me here, alone, with that thing."

"Deb, tomorrow. I promise."

"Fine. But that's it. Tomorrow, before you go to work. We decide what we're going to do. Okay?"

"Okay," daddy says.

"We need a plan. You and I are going to do this. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you, John? Because I'm talking final solution. Get me?"

"I get you, Deb. Jesus."

It gets quiet then. They watch TV. They eat food. They go to sleep. I spend the entire time in my crib. No one even thinks of taking me out or feeding me or changing me. But I don’t just lie there. I'm busy.

My eyes have trouble focusing and I have difficulty moving my fingers, but I begin to understand how the iPhone works. I don't have a clear plan, at first. I just want to understand this device, see what my options are. I swipe fingers over the screen. I push the home button. I bring the device close to my eyes and study what I see.

The Internet. Here are tons of possibilities. I could find some sort of government agency for the protection of children. I could send them an anonymous tip from a concerned neighbour. "I heard them threaten to kill their child. They never seem to take it outside anymore. I’m worried."

I quickly dismiss the idea. No tricks. This isn't about games. I want to speak. I want to be heard. I want them to understand what I'm going through. I want them to know how I feel.

I surf the app store. Maybe they have something I could use. My fingers get better at manipulating the screen. My eyes gain a sharper focus. This iPhone is exactly what I needed. My intellect, my body -- I need something to channel my energies. Up until now, all I had was a rattle -- a plastic sphere with dried peas inside. Shake it, and it makes a noise. Christ, what the fuck is the point of that?

On the app store, I find a text-to-speech application. Exactly the sort of thing I want. Who needs a functioning tongue when you have technology?

I turn the volume down low. I type a word -- "cat". I get the device to speak.

"Cat," says the iPhone.

I try typing a few trial sentences. It takes a lot of effort. My fingers aren't stable. Sweat runs down my tiny face. But I'm motivated.

"If music be the food of love, play on," says the iPhone. "Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers... Itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout."

It's a Stephen Hawkings robot voice. But then, what am I? A baby, in a crib, who can't speak, with an intellect trapped inside. I'm very much like the handicapped physicist. And soon I will surprise mommy and daddy with my intelligence, with my feelings.

I can make this work. I will communicate. I tuck the iPhone back in my diaper and get some rest.

It feels like my eyes just closed when I wake up, suddenly. How many hours have gone by? There's a noise. A quiet noise. I look up. My parents are at the door. Daddy is holding a big, fluffy pillow. The way he's carrying it, I realize this pillow is their murder weapon. They intend to smother me to death.

I take the iPhone out of my diaper and I start typing.

"Listen to me," I say. "This has to stop. I know this will come as a shock, but I'm intelligent, and I need you to listen to what I have to say."

Daddy stops in his tracks. He drops the pillow. Mommy, behind him, peers over his shoulder. Her mouth hangs open. She can't believe what she is seeing. Neither of them can.

"What...?" mommy says, her voice trailing off.

There I am, lying in my crib, on my back, the iPhone propped up on my belly. And I’m typing up a storm with my fingers.

"Listen to me," I type, and then the iPhone speaks the words. "This is not a trick. This is your child, your baby talking to you. I know what you plan to do. I know what that pillow is for. You can't smother me. You can't. Because I'm an intelligent being. And, by the way, I appear to be more intelligent than the two of you put together. You don't think a crime lab will be able to tell I was smothered to death? They’ll never think it was crib death. You idiots have no idea what you're doing. You'll both be off to jail."

I shake my head. No, this isn't what I wanted to say. This isn't right. I change tracks entirely.

"I'm your child," I say. "I'm yours. You created me. And it's your job to take care of me. You need to love me. Do you understand? You need to stop being children and look after me. Your lives have changed. You need to own what is happening to you. You need to take responsibility for your actions. You can't have a child and then ignore it, abandon it."

"I need to be fed," I say. "I need to have my diaper changed. I need to be stimulated intellectually so I develop in the proper way. I need so much, I know. I'm helpless and small. Yes, I suppose I am a burden, but I need you to help me. You two, you had a child. It's your job to help me with my needs. You don't know what it's been like, looking at you two botch my upbringing. I listen to your feeble excuses, watch you fight over what needs doing. Daddy runs away, not wanting to take any responsibility. Mommy wants to go shopping and watch soap operas and sit on her fat fucking ass."

I'm furious. My fingers hurt. My eyes are burning from staring at the screen. I don't care. I ignore all my physical pain and I keep typing.

"I love you. Why don't you love me? What's wrong with you people, that you would ignore a newborn child, let it sit in its own shit? Why? Why do you do it? What's wrong with you two? What the fuck is wrong with you? Answer me!"

But they just stand there, gaping at me. They think they've gone insane. They can't believe this is happening. And I guess it is a lot to take in, a baby typing frantically on an iPhone, communicating in complete sentences. But I don't want to feel sympathy for these idiots. I want answers. I want them to explain themselves. I want them to be confronted with me, with what I want, with how I feel.

"There is this huge, burning, terrible ache in my chest," I say. "It's longing for love. For care. For nurturing. It's tearing me up inside. And I hear you say such terrible things about me, and about each other, and I ache all the more. Why won't you love me? I don't think I'm all that ugly. Shouldn't a little ugliness even make you feel sympathy for me? Doesn't the runt of the litter get showered with all the more love and care, because it is helpless and smaller than the other puppies? Couldn't you think of me in that light? Couldn't you at least try to..."

Daddy steps forward and rips the iPhone from my hands. He throws it on the floor. And then he stomps on it, crushing it under his heel.

I can't believe what he's done. It's so stupid. So ignorant.

As if to drive the point home, he kicks the shattered iPhone to one side. Then he speaks to mommy, without looking away from me.

"Let's go," Daddy says.

Mommy's eyes are huge. Her mouth still hangs open. "What...?" she says.

"Let's just go," daddy says.

"Go?" she echoes.

Daddy grabs mommy by the arm and they slowly back out of the room. They don't want to look away from me. The way they’re staring, it’s as if I will levitate out of my crib and chase after them. Instead of hearing what I had to say, they're terrified that I can speak, can understand them. If anything, it has made them all the more stupid, selfish, and frightened.

The door closes. And then there's a loud click. I realize with a start that they have locked the door. I didn't even know there was a lock on my bedroom door.

It's quiet for a long, long time. I strain to hear a sound. There's nothing.

They're never coming back in here. It hits me with a chilling certainty. This is it. They're just going to leave me in here. They're going to let me die of thirst, of hunger. They're just going to completely abandon me. They're never coming back into this room again. They wouldn't do that, would they? Oh yes, they would. Of course they would. They're young and stupid and frightened of everything. I might just be a baby, but I'm so much older and smarter than they are, and they're just going to leave me in here to die.

That's when it happens. Something inside of me breaks. The ache in my chest pops open, like a boil being lanced, and I am flooded with painful emotion. And I cry. I cry as loud and hard as I possibly can. It pours out of me like lava. Like red hot pus. It’s a furious, painful, sobbing scream of impotence and need.

For the first time in my life, I'm crying like a fucking baby.

Strangled Sunlight

I’d never killed a man in the daylight before. Murder is a night time thing. That’s what I told myself. The dark hides the killing. It hides it from witnesses. It hides it from the victim. It hides it from me. I can pretend it was just a dream. I don’t have to take it seriously.

Killing in the day is different. I can see everything. All the details stand out. The cracks in the pavement. The graffiti on the wall. Every beer can in the grass. The broken bottles. The clothes the victim wears. The colour and texture of his hair. His face. The sounds he makes. The grunts. The gasps. All of it is there, in my memory. It’s uncomfortable, for me. I like my memories covered in shadows.

It started as a simple hit.

“His name’s Crispin,” the boss tells me.

“What the fuck kind of name is that?” I ask.

“He’s young,” the boss says. “Stupid. He doesn’t carry a weapon. At least, he never did. No gun, no knife. He’s white. Brown hair. Vinnie took his picture. Wait. Vinnie, give us your phone.”

We’re in a pool hall. The kind that doesn’t let in strangers. If they get in, we chase them out. Or knock them out with a pool cue.

Vinnie is an enforcer. He’s big and scary looking. He can hurt you, but he doesn’t kill. I’m on the smaller side. I look like an insurance salesman. I kill.

Vinnie stands up from his stool. He waddles over.

“Here ya go, Derek,” he says.

I take the phone. There’s a picture of Crispin. He’s skinny, trying to smile. His teeth are all crooked. His lips are so thin, they’re almost not there. Crispin looks like an ugly fish. Nothing dangerous.

No need to discuss why he’s doomed. It’s always the same story. Crispin didn’t pay money he owed The Business. When that happens, enforcers try to scare him. When that doesn’t work, The Business sends me. I have to make an example. I have to clean it up.

“He looks like a loser,” I say.

“He is a loser,” the boss says. “They’re all losers. That’s why we kill them. If they weren’t losers, they’d have money.”

“No,” I say. “He looks worse than the regulars. A real loser. I don’t know. Just god awful.”

Something in Crispin’s face does it. Partly it’s the smile. When Vinnie takes your picture, you don’t smile. It’s usually the last picture anybody ever takes of you. Crispin was smiling. Not happy. Just trying to be friendly. Trying to fit in. Weak. Stupid. A loser.

“King of the losers,” Vinnie suggests.

I nod. “That’s it. Like he’s the king of the losers.” I hand Vinnie back his phone.

Vinnie looks at the photo. “Royalty,” he says, dreamy like. And smiles at his own joke. He pockets his phone and waddles away.

“Anyway,” the boss says. “The Idiot is holed up downtown. Some abandoned store. With his girlfriend, Tidbit. Who fucking works for us. Tidbit called it in. She’s not stupid.”

I know Tidbit. She’s a blonde. Tiny. Been around forever. Still pretty. Good stripper. Forty something passing for twenty something. At least with no bright lights in the room.

“Now, here’s the thing,” the boss says. “Crispin has a bus ticket. Greyhound.”

“A runner,” I say.

“A runner. Stupid fuck. His bus leaves today at 12:30. About three hours from now. Tidbit saw the ticket. Yeah, one ticket. Our boy is no romantic. He’s leaving his girlfriend behind. Said he’d send her money later. So she can join him. Like fuck. What the hell is Tidbit going to do in Florida? Dance for senior citizens? Anyway. Grab Crispin before the bus station. Tidbit will lead him down Prescott street. West side of the street. Pick an alley. There are tons of alleys around there. Grab him. Kill him. Dump him. It’s an easy hit.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What,” the boss says. But he knows. I can see it in his flat, expressionless face. He knows exactly what I’m going to say.

“You want him hit in the middle of the day.”

“Right. This one has a time limit.”

I don’t want to say it. It’s embarrassing.

“Look, Derek,” the boss says. “You’ve only killed at night. I get it. You’re used to that. But this guy is nothing. Less than nothing. You won’t even break a sweat. What, are you superstitious?”

I shake my head.

“How many? Since you started?”

I look at my fingers. Not to count. To picture my hands squeezing around all those necks.

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen in two years. Nothing to sneeze at. All at night. You’ve never failed me. When I give you a nail, you hammer it. So now, mix it up a little. Branch out. Swat a fly during the day. All right?”

“All right,” I say.

“All right,” the boss says. Discussion closed.

But I’m not happy. There’s no explaining it. Even to myself, it makes no sense. The night is safer. What happens at night is only half real. The dark keeps it out of my head. I don’t have to carry it around. It’s buried in shadow.

But I don’t have words for it. None I can say out loud.

Prescott street. There are dozens of alleys to choose from. Just like the boss said. One particular dead end alley seems best. There’s an out-of-business vacuum store on one side. On the other, a scummy bar. It won’t open for hours. There’s a high wooden fence. Empty lots on the other side. There’s a bend at the end of the alley. A dumpster tucked in a corner. No one from the street will see us. Back here, it’s a world to itself.

I stand at the mouth of the alley. I wait. I lean against a concrete wall. It’s gray. I’m gray. I have cultivated a gray quality. It’s part of my job.

The street is quiet. Businesses have failed. No reason for cars to drive here. Little foot traffic.

An hour later. I see Crispin and Tidbit. They’re slow. And they’re on the wrong side of the street. East side. The boss told me west. I curse under my breath. Tidbit fucked up, maybe. Or the boss got it wrong.

I’ll have to leave the alley I’ve grown to love. Cross the street. I’ve planned for the alley. I’ll stick with it. Just have to move Crispin. Get him to the alley. What if he runs?

I cross over. I wait on the sidewalk. Tidbit is carrying one suitcase. Crispin is carrying the other. As they approach me, I hear him talking.

“Baby, you know I love you. When I get to Florida, I can fix things. Relatives will help me. My uncle is big. Big! He’s got connections. There’s a casino. He’ll help me. You have to trust me. I’m not ditching you. Don’t be sad. It’s not goodbye. Listen to me. Listen. Come on, TeeBee. Don’t be like this. Come on.”

On and on like that. Tidbit says nothing. Clearly Crispin can’t figure it out. She’s acting like he’s dying, not leaving. Why would that be? So he keeps trying to convince her.

Of course, he really is dying. He just doesn’t know it yet. Everyone knows it but him.

They get close enough.

“Crispin?” I say casually.

He stops. He looks at me. Not wary. Just curious.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure,” he says. He smiles his loser smile. “I got time.”

Tidbit stops. She puts down the suitcase she was carrying. She doesn’t look at me or Crispin. She just leaves. Back the way she came. Not fast, but not slow. Determined.

“Where’s she going?” Crispin says to himself. He calls out, “Hey! TeeBee!”

Tidbit doesn’t look back. She turns a corner. She’s gone.

“Goddamn it,” Crispin says. “She’s just sore. Because I’m leaving.”

I wonder if he’s on something. He seems friendly, innocent. Doesn’t suspect anyone. Not Tidbit. Not me. His eyes are huge, wide, but see nothing.

“You’re leaving town?” I say.

“Going to Florida,” he says brightly.

“Hmm,” I say. Like it’s a bad idea.

“Do I know you?” he asks me. Still without suspicion.

“We need to talk,” I say. I grab the suitcase Tidbit dropped. It’s not heavy at all. “Come over to my office.”

“I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“It won’t take long.”

I start walking, assuming he’ll follow. And he does. We cross the street. We go into the alley.

“What’s this all about?” he asks.

“This way.”

We go down the alley. We turn the corner. It’s that easy. I’m amazed.

After the enforcers visit, people are spooked. Every shadow is a threat. How can this guy be so dumb? He follows me meekly, curious. He really just wants to know what this is about.

Crispin reminds me of turkeys. When it rains, they stare up at the sky. Rain amazes them. They stand with mouths open. And they drown like that. Or so I’ve heard. It’s probably bullshit.

I feel better in the alley. He’s where I want him. There will be no running. I open the dumpster and throw his suitcase inside.

“Hey!” Crispin says. “What did you do that for?”

I punch him in the chest. One fast, sharp pop. It’s all I need. He’s small. He drops his suitcase, falls back against the fence. He slides to the ground. Now he’s sitting there. Legs out. Back against the fence.

“Ow,” he groans. “Fuck.”

I pick up the other suitcase. I throw it in the dumpster.

It’s noon. Or close to it. The sun is right above us. Hot, white light fills the alley. Everything is ablaze with light. The old graffiti on the fence glows. The pavement in the alley is so greasy, it shines. There are tufts of grass here and there. Broken bottles. Cans. Crispin is looking up at me. His mouth is trembling. His face is bathed in light.

“What is this?” he asks. “What did I ever do to you?”

I’m used to these kinds of questions. Voices in the dark. No faces. I hear them all the time. They think I’m doing this to them. They don’t get they did it to themselves. They feel cheated.

And they never believe they’re going to die. Never. No matter how much they owe. No matter how badly they fucked up. They all think they’re immortal. Even as I strangle them in the dark. They can’t believe it. It’s all a dream. Someone will stop this, they think. There will be a last minute rescue. They’ll wake up soon. But they don’t.

That’s how it goes, in the dark. But this sunlight. Something is different. The world is different. Darkness doesn’t answer questions. But sunlight. What does sunlight do?

“You owe money,” I say. I don’t like to talk, but I’m talking. “They told you to pay. You didn’t pay.”

And Crispin laughs. He’s relieved. He’s actually relieved.

“Oh that,” he says. “I explained that to Vinnie. And the other guy. I told them.”

“You don’t explain to Vinnie. You pay him.”

“But I can get the money. I’m going to get it. I have relatives in Florida.”

Crispin is calm, now. Sprawled on the alley floor. His chest still aching. Hands propping up his scrawny body. His voice is confident. This is a misunderstanding. He can fix this. His certainty annoys me. As does the trembling smile. Always smiling, this moron.

“Do you know why we’re in this alley?” I ask. “Do you know why we’re here? What’s about to happen?”

“What?” Crispin asks. He really has no idea. Everything is a surprise.

“I’m going to kill you,” I say. I wait for the words to sink in, but they don’t. He looks almost skeptical. So I say, “I’m here to kill you.”

“No,” Crispin says. He’s dismissive. He can’t believe it. “No. That doesn’t make sense. I can get the money. Don’t they want the money? I can pay. I told them I can pay. This doesn’t make any sense. Listen. I’ve got an uncle. He lives in Florida. He works for a casino.”

I cut him off. “None of that matters now. It’s too late. You’re dead. When you see me, you’re dead. I kill people. Do you understand?”

Crispin still can’t believe it. “You’re going to kill me? I don’t believe this. That’s crazy. This can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening.”

“No,” he says, with wonder.

I find myself wanting to kick him. I’m not a cruel man. But his stupidity makes me angry.

“How do you think I found you?” I ask.

He blinks. It never occurred to him. “How?”

“Tidbit called us. She led you straight to me. I was waiting.”

“No. Why would she do that?”

“She works for us. She led you to me. As soon as she saw me, she left. So I could kill you.”

“But I love her. She knows I love her. Why would she do that?”

Not angry. Not sad. Simply not understanding.

“She’s a stripper. A whore. She works for us. Who can she trust? You? We pay her rent. What do you give her? You’re leaving. You don’t understand anything. This is the world you live in.”

“I was going to Florida. I’d get money, I’d send for her. We’d spend some time there. Then we’d come back. I’d pay my debts.”

“That was never going to happen.”

“That’s what I was going to do! My uncle lives in Florida. He works at a casino.”

“There is no uncle,” I said. “There is no casino. There isn’t even a Florida.”

“What?”

I let out a long sigh. I hate talking. I hate explaining. But this sun. It gets to me. The hot sun. And his dumb face. Staring. Like a turkey. And I’m the rain. I’m going to drown him.

“You would have got there. A place called Florida. But it’s not the Florida in your head. Your uncle. He’d tell you to fuck off. Say you got some money. Somehow. Dumb luck. You’d tell yourself it wasn’t enough cash. Not for you. Not for your dreams. It’s never going to be enough. You can’t call Tidbit until you have more. So you’d gamble. And you’d lose. You’d go into debt again. And then someone else would kill you. Some Florida killer. Some guy like me. But with a tan. You’d die under a palm tree. Instead of next to a dumpster.”

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t happen like that.”

But he knows it would. I can hear it in his voice. His certainty is gone. So is the smile. It’s all so new to him. He gets it.

“No matter where you go, it leads here. To this alley. To your death.”

“It wouldn’t happen like that,” he says again. Weaker. He can’t make it stick.

“That’s what always happens. That’s why I have a job. That’s why I kill losers like you. So people know how it is. Pay your bills. Or you die. Like Crispin died. Strangled and thrown into a dumpster.”

His big, dumb, blue eyes are wide. He’s in shock. He looks at the dumpster. His coffin. He looks back at me.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

I don’t answer. I step forward, lean over, and grab his throat. And I squeeze. We stare into each other’s eyes. There’s no struggle. He’s given up. This is his fate. He knows that now. Maybe it’s the sunlight. He can see his fate. He can’t hide from it. This is no dream.

His face goes purple. I see it. A faint eggplant colour taints his face. Red floods into his large, blank, blue eyes. His tongue sticks out slightly, swelling. I can feel the pulse in his neck. It’s wild, then slows. His hands reach up, then fall back. His legs kick a little dance.

It’s one of my easiest kills. The boss was right. I don’t even break a sweat. I let go. He falls back, sitting against the fence. Dead.

I search him. I take the bus ticket. I don’t know why. I take the wallet. No money, no credit cards, no pictures. A few receipts. His back pocket holds a pack of gum. I throw it on the ground. Some scraps of paper. Not much else. I pick him up by his waist. He’s small, but still surprisingly light. I throw him in the dumpster. I move the suitcases around. Now the body is covered. Maybe no one will ever see him.

I change my mind. I take out the suitcases. I go through them. Nothing of interest. Crappy clothes. Extra pair of shoes. All of it second hand crap. I rip out then suitcase lining. Nothing. No secrets.

What am I looking for? I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t find it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in a convenience store. There’s a payphone. I call the boss.

“It’s done,” I say.

“Good,” he says.

I hang up.

And it’s all done. Finished.

But it stays with me. For days. For weeks. Everywhere I go. Walking the street. Hanging at the pool hall. The killing stays with me. I can’t shake it.

Crispin’s face. The stupid conversation. The alley. The graffiti. That hot noontime sun. The broken bottles in the grass. The bus ticket to Florida.

I’ve killed seventeen people. I barely remember the others. It was dark. It was quick. I didn’t talk to them. I just strangled them and walked away. Didn’t even search them. There was nothing personal about it. Like washing dishes. Peeling potatoes. A chore.

Killing Crispin stays with me. Not that I feel bad. I just remember. I can’t shrug it off. I see visions of his face. Before and after. I see the time we spent together. I hear his stupid excuses. I get to feeling like he’s a friend of mine.

Maybe it’s a good thing. That’s what I’ve decided. I’ve seen it. Up close. Well lit. I remember it all. It’s not a dream. It’s real.

I know what I do. I know the world I live in.