Posted by Menagerie on August 01, 2004 at 09:35:27:
TALK TO YA LATER
Ed first met Tiffany at the lounge down off Groesbeck. Nice tits, a huge perm of a ‘do, kind of a dazed expression on her face. Big, brown eyes and a cute overbite, tall and leggy. Did I mention the tits?
She wouldn't go right back to his place, but Ed’s fifteen bux for drinks did yield a phone number. She had this sing-song, little girl voice. "Sure!" she piped, over the phone. "Dinner at Shepherd's? Love to!"
Shepherd's would set Ed back about seventy-five, but he was working his way into her pants, one dead president at a time. She ate daintily, dabbing with great care at her rather oversized lips, and left three-quarters of a $29.95 veal chop on her plate. Dancing? At the Gold Door? Love to!
A ten-spot flung in the direction of the scruffy, smirking band leader got Ed a passable rendition of “The Rose”. On the dance floor, Ed pawed at Tiffany like he was trying to smooth her back and buttocks flat, except he sure wasn't. A whole lot of seat there! He was at his best, smiling shyly, bashfully telling her he was almost a musician once, too, but now he's making so much money in merchandise sales...well, his dream can always come later. He punctuated the tale by buying the bar a drink; Tiffany's eyes widened, the pouty lips formed a little "o". Ed grinned to himself, thinking about putting those lips to good use.
Back in his apartment, in the sack, the girl made up in enthusiasm what she lacked in style. "Oh, oh, ooooooooh, Ernie," she moaned, and he refrained from saying, It's Ed, you silly twat. The tits were even nicer up close and personal than they were under the frilly blouse; the long legs flexed, kicked out, knocked a lamp to the floor with a crash. Ed found himself reaming Tiffany, telling her how good she was, while calculating how many weeks of commissions tonight was going to cost him. But then her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back and started bubbling happily, and he thought, well, damn, this is kewl!
The next night they stayed in the apartment, him fixing her one of his famous stuffed game hens--broads love these fancy little meals without much meat--and serving her enough wine to float a Panamax vessel. Then, away they went to the tiny bedroom for some more shrieking, bouncing, furniture-destroying fun. The wine really got Tiffany babbling, and Ed had to hear about everything from her fifth high school reunion to the part-time job at Jacobsen's to her two three-year-old nephews or maybe they were three two-year-old nephews. He nodded and smiled and got her nekkid, all the while wondering, How long before this gets old?
The next night, she brought her things. She didn't have very many things; she'd been living with another guy. Ed didn't ask. They split a pizza--Ed figured he had spent his commissions through Thanksgiving--and Tiff talked all the while, all through Forget Paris (he rented the DVD; she'd said it was her favorite), about how much she liked being with him, and what a good cook he was, and such a good lover, too. They cuddled up on the old couch; he had her panties off before Billy Crystal could tell Kareem, "Then let me be the first to say, farewell!" The beat-up piece of furniture squeaked as they bounced, but it didn't drown her out. Ed heard you could get these earplugs at Meijer's, mold right into your ears, three fifty-nine. He'd check it out.
The days were followed by weeks. The sex was great; the conversation was tedious, then numbing, then grating. At the store, Ed would be putting the finishing touches on an order for a big-screen TV and thinking about that 7 1/2 percent cut, and that damn phone would ring. He knew who it would be; Tiff was just so excited, talking about the new drapes she was getting, and the carpet, and a divan to replace that old couch. And her new hot pink A-frame suit with the matching pumps. Ed forced a smile as he waved goodbye to his customer; the commission on the TV was already gonzo.
With the new furniture and new clothes came a new attitude. Take your shoes off, she ordered, that carpet will stain. Put a coaster under that beer. There would be no more fucking on the new divan; after last night, I had to scrub it for half an hour. She has time to scrub the divan, now that she’s quit her job at Jacobsen's, her $14.75 an hour job. Ed ate a TV dinner--the meat was still cold--while she yakked about the show on the TV, the crowd at the furniture store, the dent she'd put in his Buick backing into a light pole in the parking lot. Ed was ready to kill her, so he fucked her instead, relieved some tension. Besides, when Tiff was naked and bouncing up and down under him was about the only time he could get her to shut up.
He tried to get rid of her; at first, subtly. A note, accompanied by a couple of C-notes, suggested she might want to go away for a while, get some fresh air. Forget it; she was still there that evening. "I couldn't go; who would I talk to?" She'd spent the money on clothes.
Then, not so subtly. Listen, he interrupted her monologue about her nephews one night, I think maybe we should spend some time away from each other. See other people. She started to cry; no, I can't do that. "I love you so much!" she sobbed. They headed back to the bedroom; she’d replaced his old bed, which he had to admit was more comfortable, except when the payments were due on the twelfth.
So, Ed was whipped. All the selling he could do, and he couldn't keep up with the payments on all the shit Tiff could buy. One night, he lied, told her he'd be working late, then instructed his co-worker Sal to cover for him and bugged out early. He headed for the Gold Door; he needed to get away. Flashed a few bills, met a foxy redhead named Shelley; she giggled and cooed, passed along her phone number, hinted she'd like to see his pad. He'd like her to see his pad, too, especially the ceiling in his bedroom. Desperate, frantic, in hock ass-deep, Ed came up with a plan.
The next night--Tiff had started yakking the moment he got back from the Gold Door, and didn't stop until he stuck his dick into her--Ed borrowed the company van. In the back was a deep-freeze, and a large Formica table. Both had been returned by a customer; Ed had conveniently disposed of the paperwork. From the home emporium, he went to the superstore and bought all the tools he'd need--saws, knives, plastic wrap, wax paper. And a big ol' mallet, just like the Coyote uses in the cartoons. Bop! He hauled all the stuff into the apartment, Tiff gaping and wondering what he needed with such things, the refrigerator was usually empty, anyway, where are you going to put that big table, it doesn't go with my furniture--
The last thing Ed brought in was the mallet. He closed the door. Bop.
Tiff certainly did have long legs, Ed reflected. He had her stretched out on the table, and was cutting her into chunks. Her tits went into separate baggies, and her back, and her thighs, and her ribs--Ed had helped out at Dad's meat market in high school, and could do all this stuff without throwing up. The parts he couldn't use went into the trash compactor; as he watched Tiff’s head disappear, her mouth with the cute little overbite finally closed for the first time in his memory, he felt a pang of conscience. But just a pang; he whistled and finished the job, cleaning up and packing Tiffany into the deep-freeze, as he thought about Shelley coming for dinner and an orgy.
All of the crap Tiff had packed into the game room, the exercise equipment and tasteful furnishings, was hauled out and loaded back into the company van; Ed was confident he could at least recoup a fraction of his losses. Into the game room went the freezer, filled with bits of Tiff. He selected a rather tasty looking chunk, a standing rib roast, for the following evening's seduction. He'd tell Shelley it was pork. What the hell did women know?
“Oh—my!” the sultry redhead gasped, her mouth half-full of Tiff’s backside. She was wearing a blouse with a neckline that plunged like Greg Louganis; the sea-green eyes stared at Ed, who smiled. “This is fantabulous! You have to tell me how you made it!” Well, he thought, looking down at his portion and preparing to saw off a chunk, you take one ex-girlfriend, bang her over the head…
Get that knife away from me!
Ed dropped his silverware with a clatter. His eyes shot up; Shelley was still going ga-ga over the meat, repeatedly saying “mmm, mmm” and mopping her mouth with her napkin. He looked down at his tenderloin of Tiffany.
Is that all you can do—stare at me?
“Um, uh, sorry,” Ed muttered. Shelley was digging back in. “Sorry? About what?”
Tell her to quit it! OWWWWWWW! If you loved me, you wouldn’t let her—
Ed jumped up, gawked at the cutlet on his plate as if it had grown horns and a tail. The meat sat there, benignly; Shelley was getting a little concerned.
“Is everything all right?” she asked the man who was standing up across from her, staring wildly at his food. It briefly flashed across Ed’s mind that, Good night, this one is even dumber than Tiff.
Hey! I resent that!
Okay. Not only is Tiffany’s meat talking to him, it can read his mind. Ed took a deep breath, gave the babe a wan smile, and sat back down. “Bit my tongue,” he explained. Liar! proclaimed the voice. “Shut up,” Ed muttered; he attacked his cutlet with intensity, brutally severing a healthy sliver from the rib end of the meat in a deliberate, jigsaw motion. The bodiless voice began to sob. I thought we had a thing going, it said. Ed inserted the meat into his mouth with satisfaction, bit down hard, and really did bite his tongue. The meat laughed with gusto; Ed raised his napkin to his mouth. Through the laughter, he heard Shelley say, “You really need to be more careful.”
The sex wasn’t much better. Tiffany’s ghost or whatever never let up on him; as he cleared the table, the voice berated his manners. Don’t you put me in there, it warned as he tossed the bones into the compactor. When he finally got the eager redhead into the bedroom, the voice turned up the intensity. You’re tearing her blouse, it said. Don’t you know that hurts? You never did that with me! You know she doesn’t really like you; you probably just waved a wad of twenties at her, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Louder and louder, until Ed’s schlong shrunk like a toy balloon.
Shelley tried to pump him back up again—under ordinary circumstances, the slinky redhead would have had him spouting like Moby Dick, but her mouth and tongue couldn’t overcome the screaming in Ed’s brain. She finally gave up. “Is there any of that meat left from dinner?” she asked Ed, who was lying on his back, trying to ignore his shrilling ex-girlfriend. “I’d like to make a sandwich!” The voice howled anew; Ed nodded and, as the girl threw on his shirt and hurried out of the room, he rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.
Ed didn’t get a lick of sleep all night; he called in sick, saw Shelley off, and focused on ending the steady stream of complaints that only he could hear. Maybe, he thought, I need to get her out of my system; he staggered to the bathroom. A few minutes lately, Ed thought wryly, he had dumped his girlfriend. But it didn’t help; she was on about how she had needed to buy birthday gifts for her two three-year-old nephews, or three two-year-old nephews, and thanks to him, the little rugrats would be heartbroken.
So, that didn’t work. Ed pulled a thigh steak out of the fridge, slapped it in the frying pan with a little butter. He defiantly ate a slab of Tiff’s luscious limb, the voice all the while threatening him with indigestion. Ruin my time with Shelley, he told the steak, will you? Take this, and this, the steak knife slicing through the thick muscle…damn, she was kind of fatty, he thought. From lying around the apartment all day, I guess. The voice sobbed again. I always thought you liked my legs. I do, Ed said out loud, with hot sauce.
The next morning, Ed had no choice but to go to work. The whites of his eyes looked like a skinned knee, a bad one. Customers and co-workers kept looking at him oddly; he was muttering responses whenever Tiff, wherever she was, berated him for his sloppiness, his laziness, his lack of social etiquette. He took a bite out of a sandwich, Tiff’s calf and Swiss on rye with mustard. You’re dripping all over the floor. You pig. Ed scowled and bit down hard, howling in pain as he caught a sliver of bone. Serves you right. “Shut up!” he cried, and Sal tapped him on the shoulder. The Boss wanted to see him.
Ed, you’re the best salesman I’ve ever had, the Boss said sadly. I just don’t know what’s gotten into you, and Ed heard Tiff laugh. Very funny. Maybe, the Boss went on, you need to take some time off; don’t worry, your job will be waiting. Go get some rest; maybe, take a trip. Get away from what’s troubling you; is it a girl? Yeah, sure, Mr. Borkowski; good idea.
Ed walked out, thinking about the fact Tiff had left him broke till the next Presidential election cycle; he had nowhere to go, a freezer full of girl in his apartment, and was out of a job. And she kept shrieking at him, You bum, can’t even hold a job, I don’t know what I saw in you, I should leave you…Ed didn’t see the cement mixer. Or maybe he did.
It would be a sad ending, except the cops going through Ed’s place found the freshly wrapped meat, and one of them figured it would make a nice gift to the Catholic youth home for girls. Two days later, all the girls knocked out their counselor, stole his credit card, and booked it to the max at Nordstrom’s.