Polly wants me to come to the phone. “Benny, you’re wanted.” A score. A new high. I’ve been investing in various rodent and insect enterprises attempting to come up with the perfect drug, one with no comedown and no tolerance. Mixed results so far, and many mice have died. But they haven’t died in vain. Polly has supported my effort and supplied me with medical grade cocaine and morphine to be used for experimental purposes. It’s all very above board and on the level. “BENNY! You’re wanted.” I’m wanted on the phone because I’m wanted down here, beneath the subway system of Manhattan, where I’m a benevolent king, and Polly is my queen.
“Stop waking up at two in the afternoon,” she hissed as she kicked me in the butt. I asked her why she’d do something like that, physical violence against a refugee from the same. “Because you’re a shit,” she said, “and I don’t trust you anymore.” She dragged on her cigarette and turned to speak into the phone in a hush. Finally she hung up and turned back to me, on the ground waiting. “Benny, your cousin and his wife are on their way here. I suggested you meet instead where you belong, in Massachusetts. I’ve booked you a flight for eight in the morning tomorrow.” At this point, I started kicking and screaming. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t there when the girl fell down the stairs or when James overdosed. It wasn’t my fault. “Benny, stop talking. You need to talk less, always. It’s annoying.”
And then she smiled. “But I like you. I got you on the Concorde.” I reminded this subterranean street urchin that that particular plane hadn’t been flown in nearly two decades. “I own one.” I’ll no longer insult this wonderful woman. “And you’ll be in first class. They know what you need.” Medications? “Yes.” Brekkie and morning biscuits delishus? “Yes.” Operational, competing McDonald’s and Burger King on the plane as an option, even if I don’t use it? “Sure.” Hard drugs, like heroin? Cocaine? Methamphetamine? “No. FAA.” Okay, fair. What about accompaniment? “What do you mean?” You know. “I don’t, actually. Explain what you mean, Bennington. I’d like to know. It’s better if I understand you correctly. You want to be accompanied? By whom?”
I jumped up and kissed her on the beak. But I forgot that our beaks were incompatible, and in my burst of passion, I tore Polly’s head clean off her body. There were no screams, nor loud sounds, just a flop drowned out by the music outside and the subway up above. I looked down, with her twitching head in my mouth, and saw the rest of her body slump by my feet, pouring blood and guts out the stump. I took one bite—might as well try—and enjoyed it, more than I liked, but I ate the rest anyway, and left her skull by her body with a small flag I found in someone’s leftover Long Island iced tea. I said a few words—private, of course, but meaningful—and left her to be found by her patrons, mutilated and seemingly sacrificed in some kind of bizarre, esoteric ritual. All I wanted was a kiss.
This is what happens to me. This is what happens to your life if you’re Bennington Quibbits: you’re fucked up. You fuck up. You eat too much. You kill. You do too many drugs. You kill. You yell at people. Your interpersonal interactions are a disaster. You kill. You can’t hold down a job or present as a Quibbits in public lest you besmirch the family name and tank the cultural capital they have. You kill. And you have killed—that’s not just a matter of speaking to me. I’m Bennington Quibbits and I killed my best friend Polly because I loved her, and now I’m leaving on a private plane for my home outside of Marshfield, Massachusetts to meet my beloved cousin Rooster and his bitch wife Monica for what will surely be a merrily, merrily Christmas again. I stole the drugs and all of the cash. I’m ready to go.
For Polly? I’m sorry to say… it’s over for her.
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