Free Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs Page A

the borescope slips in easily. Thanks to the Unisom cocktails, he’s fast asleep and doesn’t flinch when I snake the camera deeper.
    Who needs anatomy class?
    The handheld monitor displays the shimmering walls of his lower intestine. It’s like a giant cavern. Spelunking fascinates me, so I snake the cable deeper.
    The kid jerks, suddenly awake.
    “What the—”
    His hands claw at his butt, trying to rip out the cable. He can’t, because I’ve straddled him—ride ’em cowgirl style—gripping his cock from behind like it’s the horn of my saddle. I squeeze and he yelps. Grabbing at my thighs, his nails leave red marks. That really pisses me off.
    I jump up, rush to the kitchen, pull a serrated bread knife from the butcher block. The kid is so wasted he doesn’t know which end is up. But I do. Mounting him again, I saw the knife across his wrist and slice into the skin. He’s a bucking bronco, but he can’t shake me. Blood spurts into my face, and I keep sawing. The kid is wide awake now, his body heaving. The speakers blast Metallica, but even “Kill Em All” doesn’t drown his screams. I’m a bit nervous about the neighbors, but it’s Friday night and they’ll assume I’m throwing a party. Blood spurts with each heartbeat, and he’s moaning like a wounded animal. The serrated knife takes forever to get through the wrist and the kid’s squirming doesn’t help. Then I remember the scissors I bought online, guaranteed to cut through anything, including metal.
    I head back to the kitchen, thankful for the plastic tarps, since I’m tracking bloody footprints. When I hit the tiles, I skid. Frantically, I grab of roll of duck tape and the scissors. Is it duck tape or duct tape? If I’d thought this through, I would have kept the tape in the drawer of the side table by the couch.
    Through the blast of music, I hear knocking.
    I hurry to the door, wiping my hands on my tee-shirt (luckily it’s red), glance through the peephole and see the super.
    I unlock the dead bolt, release the lock on the knob, but keep the chain in place. I open the door, just a crack, so she can’t see past the foyer.
    “Hi,” I say, praying the kid won’t scream.
    I’m a good tenant—hard working, pay my HOA on time—so the super’s polite.
    “Sorry to bother you, Sadie, but it’s getting late and there’ve been complaints about the noise.”
    “No problem.” I try to smile, but the corner of my mouth twitches, so does my eye. “I’m watching a thriller. I’ll turn the TV down.”
    “You look kind of sick.”
    “Working too much.”
    I try to close the door, but she holds it open.
    “See you tomorrow at the potluck?”
    “Yeah. I’m making chili.”
    “Great.” She points to my forehead. “I think you’ve got some on your face.
    I slam the door, relock it. Sweat stings my eyes, and when I swipe my forehead, my hand comes away with blood.
    The kid is out of it, but he’s managed to sit up. He’s weeping quietly, rocking back-and-forth while cradling his partially severed hand. When he sees me coming, he stumbles to his feet and tries to get past me, lurching toward the door. Raising the scissors, I collide into his naked body. As promised, the blades slice easily through flesh and muscle. The kid stumbles backward, his good hand holding his stomach, attempting to contain the purplish intestine, while his other hand moves frantically, dangling from his bleeding wrist. The tarp is slippery with body fluids and we both slide, falling onto the plastic. On the way down, he hits the corner of the coffee table. Blood gushes from his forehead. He tries to fight me off, but the light in his eyes is fading. He’s making a queer sound that can only be described as keening. I slap a strip of tape over his mouth. That shuts him up.
    The last thing I need is another complaint from the neighbors.
    I change the music to New Age. Synthesized sound streams through my apartment, helping me to focus.
    Snip, snip, snip.
    The