The Matador Features Short Story Contest Third Place Winner

Author: Bryan Goldberg

Editor's note: The opinions and themes expressed in the piece are those of the author and not of The Middlebury Campus.



I killed her on the Fourth of July last year. I wanted to kill somebody over a three-day weekend, so in the event of a missed flight or unforeseen complication I would not miss any work. Usually I only fly on chartered jets, but this time I took a commercial flight, as their incompetent bureaucrats are far less capable of keeping organized records. The hotel I stayed at was well below my means; the junky chain hotels cannot care less about their customers. I arrived sometime during the afternoon, took a nap, ate a quick dinner by myself and left the hotel restaurant in a sport coat and tie.

The first woman I talked to was working the corner outside of an adult theatre. She did not take the initiative to approach me, despite the fact that I was a single man in business attire. I figured that she would be a solid candidate. I asked her to quote me a price for her services, and she was more than happy to do so. She took me to her apartment, and as she was undressing, I asked her if she wanted to play a game. She responded in the affirmative. I asked her what her name was and she told me it was Pepper. In response, I removed a fifty dollar bill from my wallet and burned it. She was surprised. Next I asked her if she enjoyed performing fellatio. Once again she responded in the affirmative. I burned a hundred dollar bill this time. She got angry and told me to leave. I convinced her to let me ask one more question. I asked her whether or not she had ever taken it from behind. She told me she had. This time I took out two hundred dollars and gave them to her. Now she understood the rules. She answered a few more questions for me, each time they became more personal, and each time the reward increased. I paid her five hundred dollars to describe the time her boyfriend struck her with a bottle and a thousand when she recounted losing her virginity to Uncle Samuel. Eventually, the time came for the important question. I asked her if she wanted to die. She said that she thought about killing herself at times. I asked if I could kill her. She responded in the negative. I thanked her for her time and left.

I walked the streets for almost an hour before I found someone who fit the part. He was the type of man who looked like he looked older than he was. His black hands shook as he tried to lock up the convenience store. According to my watch, he spent almost six minutes trying to put the key in the lock. I wondered if he inadvertently masturbated every time he tried to piss. I would have paid to see that. I purposely waited until he had locked up the shop before approaching. I asked him if I could use his bathroom, and he made up an excuse. I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my pocket and lit a cigarette with it. I repeated the question. He let me in and told me that I could take my time. I walked into the bathroom, took a look around and walked back out. When I told him that the bathroom was not clean, he apologized. When I pulled two Benjamin Franklins out of my pocket he offered to clean it. The dollars continued to change hands, but each time the task became less appealing. He earned five hundred dollars for submerging his head in the toilet for a full two minutes immediately after using it and a thousand more for trying to extinguish a cigar by hand. Finally, the time came for the important question. I asked him if he would play a game of Russian Roulette against my Rolex. He responded in the affirmative. He took a pistol out from behind the counter and put a single bullet into one of the eight chambers. For some reason his hands did not tremble as much this time. The gun clicked. I gave him the watch. I asked him if he would like to play again for an even better prize. He responded in the affirmative. This time he won my Armani; it fit him quite nicely. I made my way to the door, explaining that he had won everything that I had to offer. He was disappointed. Before I left, I asked him if he wanted to die. He answered in the affirmative. I asked if I could have the pleasure of killing him. He laughed at me. I left.

As I walked the streets that night, I felt like a novice fisherman in a barren lake. Fortunately, one catch was enough to feed me for life. It was almost dawn when I finally caught a flounder that wanted gutting. She was eating by herself at a fast food joint, and I sat down at her table without stopping at the counter first. She asked me what I was doing, and I told her that I wanted to keep her company. She had clearly been using cocaine that evening. I asked her how much she paid for it. She told me. It must have been very good cocaine. She periodically looked at her Cartier for some reason; perhaps time was not moving quickly enough for her. I asked her what she did for a living; she was a professional heiress. She got up to leave, and I asked if I could drive her home. She responded in the affirmative. I was surprised to see that she drove the same car as me. When we reached her apartment, I asked if I could come up to her room. She responded in the affirmative. I mixed her a nonalcoholic drink but told her that it had some vodka in it. She was impressed with me because she could not taste the liquor. I asked her if she wanted to have sex. She responded in the negative. I asked her what she would do if I had sex with her regardless. She smiled. We were both virgins to rape, and her taste for it exceeded even my own. I waited until she was climaxing before I asked her if she wanted to die. She responded in the affirmative. I asked her if she wanted me to kill her. She responded in the affirmative. I snapped the woman's neck and walked out the door leaving no life inside of her.

I wanted to enjoy my walk back to the hotel. The evening's fireworks had ceased around the time I left the prostitute, but somewhere far away I saw the explosions once more, first green, now red. They were celebrating me. I walked back the way I came, but everything looked different now. It reminded me of the way women all smelled worse after I lost my virginity, or the way in which ugly girls became gorgeous the day after I got married — and ugly again after I got divorced. I crossed the street, ignoring the red hand that ordered me to stop, for I was now a rapist, and I had the power to stop and go at my leisure. Traffic signals did not apply to me anymore either, for I was now a killer, and I had the power to choose who crosses.