Conjectural Figments Feb 2012

I see a camera mounted in the upper right hand corner of this roachinfested slum, a sheet of plastic covering the floor. Nice touches, this one.

She said her name was Amber, and the Voicescan told me she was speaking the truth—at least, the truth as far as she knew it. I’d come to trust the applications and instruments that had been built into my right arm. I carried a suitcase around with me, everything from screwdrivers and vice grips to handguns and blades. It took incoming data, via voice and email, complete with a slot for swiping, paying off the bill, and a data reader for they myriad of barcodes. Her payment had already cleared—an admission of anger and impatience. They never had the stomach, the ladies that hired me. It didn’t matter much to me. This was what I did now. Days filled with construction, chores and general housework. Nights filled with the wet work. I opened the suitcase and pulled out a long, thin blade. Detaching the hand, I screwed the knife on and turned to the man.

“You know what you did. I’m not here to bargain.”

His head shakes back and forth, and I exhale. Urine runs down the side of his leg as I nod at the camera and move in for the first cut. He’s crying soon, muttering apologies as his nipples hit the floor, followed by the digits on his right hand, then the left. He’s screaming soon after that, bucking in the chair, and to be honest, he’s getting on my nerves. I turn to the camera again and nod my head again, then run the blade across his throat. By the time I’m done attaching the saw blade the blinking light on the camera is dead. The limbs are severed and rolled in plastic. I attach the rib-spreader and dig into the ribcage, rummaging around for the heart. I vomit over the pile of appendages, the butterflied chest and the head that stares back at me, eyes open wide with shock.