5905 Albany, Georgia 31721
Tel: (269) 288-3632
Approx 2,180 words
The Asshole
By Edwin Oliver
The man was an asshole. Why do you think I did it? I’m not saying I feel proud, but it took a lot of courage... Ha! I see you just sat straight, and slightly, moved your chair towards me. You have a morbid interest, my friend. That’s good. I like that. I suppose you think I killed him? No, no. I must insist on this point; you’re wrong. I thought about it, however, but I never touched him. I just put in motion certain things, took note of other little details -- very subtle details, mind you -- and for the rest, I just sat back and allowed nature to run its course. Well, I did provide nature with a little shove, but nothing more than that, just a little push.
By the look on your face, I know what you’re thinking. You give me too much credit. I’m not as intelligent as you think I am. Calculating? Perhaps. Intelligent? No. Had I been intelligent, I never would have tried to be his friend; it’s not that we were ever friends, or that we had anything in common. No, it was simpler than that. Five minutes after I met him, I realized he was an asshole. But, as I already said, to come to this conclusion, you don’t need intelligence. Keep your eyes open, and you’ll be able to tell them apart too, just as I can. The smell that came out of this man’s lips seemed like an interminable verbal diarrhea. He must have gargled with toilet water. His favorite phrase was “fuck ‘em.” Here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck, fuck! No one mattered to him. It was always about him. And the rest of the world? Well, fuck ‘em! I couldn’t take it anymore.
Forgive my unseemly repetition of such vulgarities, but the effect this asshole had over me, is impossible to explain. An asshole -- mind you, I find it irresistible to repeat the word -- is not difficult to trap. Carefully feed their deliriums of grandeur, and you can lead them by the nose. What? You don’t know what an asshole is? Don’t be an asshole!
Am I to assume that you have no idea what the word means? You expect me to define it? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I cannot. I may have the ability to detect them, but I cannot define one. It is a Herculean task and one of the mysteries of life. You’ll seldom find the word in a dictionary, but doesn’t it make your mouth water just to repeat it? Asshole! See what I mean? Can you taste it? Oh, you must repeat it with me… say it… asshole. Aah! The word is magnanimous, but impossible to compress into a simple definition. Meaningless, yet so meaningful. There is no better satisfaction, my patient little bird, than to call an asshole, an asshole. I’ll readily admit that I reveled in that pleasure. Oh, did I ever!
Forgive me. I tend to get off the subject when I enjoy myself. So, where was I? Ah, yes. I was talking about the most exceptional day of my life. What finally happened was not an accident, or one of those acts of God that randomly happens from time to time. No, my friend, no. I planned it all so carefully. For a week, I sat at the edge of my bed -- for hours on end -- never sleeping, never moving a muscle. I must remind you that this is the secret that lit up my brain. Every evening, after I turned off the lights, I closed my eyes, and meditated until dawn. No thoughts, other than the plan. Nothing else invaded my solitude. Then, by the end of the week, the solution hit me like a bolt of lightning. As simple as that. Well, maybe not as simple as that. When you sit still for hours, except to breathe lightly, your body puts up a fight; every inch in you turns to an itch! You see what you can accomplish when you set your mind on a goal? Nothing can stop you. I swear I never moved a finger. A whole week; night after night. I would not be denied.
The first evening, I strangled him in my imagination. I used every form of strangulation. All of them. A tourniquet to his neck, a hanging from a rope; I strangled him my hands, with a belt, but, no. Nothing seemed adequate. Beginner’s stuff, nothing more. The second night, I planned an accident, then another. Slippery stairs, bad brakes, stray bullets… The possibilities were endless, but still, I came up with no solid plan. At least, nothing worth mentioning. One thing was certain; I finally saw a light at the end of my dark purpose.
By the third night, I realized that whatever my plan, it had to look natural. Nothing could give me away, and much less, could I trust anyone. I… What’s the matter? You look nervous! Do you think your life is in danger because I’m telling you this? Don’t be a fool! I wouldn’t harm you. I have no quarrel with you; what I cannot suffer is an asshole. Am I not clear on this? Easy, easy.
Where was I? Oh, yes; nothing must give me away. Whatever happened, had to happen while he was alone; I could not allow witnesses. It was on the fourth day, that the asshole, condescendingly, invited me to his house. That’s when the plan came to fruition. The man had a weak heart.
He didn’t invite me there because he liked me, or considered me his friend, or anything of the sort. His computer crashed, and he needed help. Bill Gates will never know how beholding I will always be to him. Bless his soul! I’ll never again curse at that little blue screen; it got me into this asshole’s house. Of course I accepted the invitation! Fixing his computer gave me the greatest satisfaction; or so thought the asshole.
How did I learn of his weak heart? You mean you’ve never complained to anyone about some pain, and their response is to reveal a big slew of ailments of their own? Have you also noticed their ailments are, invariably, worse than yours? The day I went to fix his goddammed computer, my back was killing me. For a long time, my back has been…
What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Why are you massaging your neck? Don’t tell me you have a headache? For sure it’s an earthshaking migraine! No? Good. I’m glad you are not about to disappoint me. I’ve come up against so many assholes in this lifetime, I’m just not sure if I can take another one.
As I was saying, he carelessly revealed his heart problems to me. If it wasn’t his blood pressure, it was stress, or the digitalis, or sudden frights, and so on, ad nauseam. His complaints drove me crazy. His heart was just the beginning of his problems. He must have had a glass of milk every twenty minutes while I was out there. “Ulcers,” he said. “I must drink milk constantly, to ease my pain.” Asshole, asshole, asshole! As if I gave a shit.
If there was anything I noticed, as I carefully studied his apartment, was his prolific collection of pornographic videos. “It’s my hobby," he said, proudly. Suddenly, it hit me, like a brick in the face. That was it! My dear God had shown me the way. A tear that rolled down my eye almost gave me away. “It’s nothing," I said. “We seem to have so much in common, that I couldn’t help but get emotional; please think nothing of it." He laughed, of course.
Before I went home that night, I managed to steal the key to his backdoor, and a bottle of digitalis. Good stuff.
How did I do it? Easy. The digitalis was in his medicine cabinet.
“Excuse me, asshole, but I need to pee.”
That’s all I needed to say. Getting the key was not much harder. As I came out of the bathroom, I managed to sneak into his bedroom. His key ring lay on top of his night table. Funny, how he labeled every key; he was such an asshole. He’d never miss the key to his backdoor. Not for a while, anyway. At this point, it didn’t matter what the final plan was; I finally had access to his house. Most importantly, the seed of a new idea began to grow within me.
As I did on previous evenings, I sat by the edge of my bed – unblinking, unmoving for the next four hours -- and began to see his death at the end of the tunnel. I planned, I calculated, I invented. When the fourth day came along, I had an idea of what to do. All I needed was the details. Three days later, the plan was complete.
Seven days. It took me seven days to complete the plan. You can see the parallel here, can’t you? God? Seven days? See what I mean? God was on my side; it was inevitable. “Suffer little children to come unto me?” No, rather it was “suffer assholes away from me.” It was all clear to me now.
I called him on the phone. A couple of questions were all I needed to determine he’d be alone that night. At two in the morning, I silently let myself in. All was quiet, not a mouse could be heard; not even when I opened the refrigerator. I was lucky. The milk carton had enough milk for one glass. I dissolved the contents of his bottle of digitalis in the creamy liquid and put the carton back. Before I left, I took the precaution of cutting his telephone line. The cut wasn’t obvious. I selected a spot, just behind the refrigerator, so as not to arouse his suspicions. I went back home, and slept like a baby.
Next day, I didn’t see him around any of his usual hangouts. It was obvious, wasn’t it? That day, I went to the movies, the shopping center, back to the movies, walked for a while, and waited for the black of night. No one saw me go back into the house.
And there he was, lying on the floor like a sack of shit. Ironic, isn’t it? In life, he was a glutton for shit; in death, he turned into the same shit he ate. There is a word for it, of course: coprophagy. Such scientific names for such disgusting acts. Man is a piece of work, isn’t he?
I grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him up to the middle of his living room. I dutifully took off his clothes. The worse part was sitting him on his sofa. “Rigor Mortis”? No. That time was past. His body was putty in my hands. I finally sat him up, took his left hand, and grabbed his penis with it. I folded his clothes and hung them in his closet, and then I placed his wallet and his keys on top of his drawer. To this day, I remember his irritating habit of tinkling his keys around his pocket, as he spoke. Tinkle, tinkle, little asshole! After today, go tinkle your mother!
I went to the kitchen, and began the lengthy chore of cleaning up; I had to take care of fingerprints and other little dead giveaways. You know about these things. There was no reason to rush, so I took my time. A maid couldn’t have done a better job than I, but one thing remained… the final touch. I walked back to the living room, turned on the television set, and placed one of his pornographic tapes in his VHS. I tell you it was a work of art. It looked like a movie set. The stink of his body would soon attract the police. That’s the way I wanted the police to find him; totally naked, in front of his television set, with a pornographic tape in his video machine, and his left hand holding his penis.
How delightful! What a brilliant way to die! Who would ever suspect that his death was not caused by anything other than this asshole’s utter depravity? Yes, my friend. Thus died an asshole.
I must insist, as I said before, I didn’t kill him. I never forced him to drink the glass of milk. He did that on his own. That’s exactly what I told the police when they came to get me.
How did they catch me, you ask? The stupid asshole never told me he had installed a security video camera in his house. I couldn’t deny it. It’s a shame, though. I almost committed the perfect crime. As they played the tape for me, and I watched the whole thing, I couldn’t help thinking: “What an asshole!”
The End