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

some useful skills. Last week, she showed me how to use the baler to crush boxes. I looked the model up online. The baler has a platen force of 62,202 pounds (I call it the flatten force). That’s more than thirty-one tons of crushing power. (A standard ton is 2,000 pounds.) A ton is approximately how much a bale of cardboard weighs, and cardboard bales make the store a ton of money, so we crush all the boxes. The baler is huge, I need a stepladder to reach the handle. Once you push the button, the crushing starts. Cycle time is forty-eight seconds, so it will take less than a minute to make a pancake out of Terri.
    We’re not supposed to climb into the baler. Too dangerous. But what if some dummy dumps something into it … like a shopping cart. (I can raise a little cart over my head. I’ve been practicing at night, at the far end of the parking lot.) Say I’m emptying the trash, when a customer sneaks past me and slips into the employee only back area. It happens. Then, let’s say, I notice him sneak out. I tear after him, chase him into the parking lot, but he’s too fast and I don’t catch him. At night, when there’s no moon, it’s difficult to see anything out in the parking lot, especially at the far end, so I can’t read his license plate. Note to self: Check moon phases before taking action . Say this occurs at 11 PM when the store’s about to close and Terri is the only CRM around—too late for the porter, too early for the night stalkers—just me, the lowly closing Courtesy Clerk, emptying trash cans around the store, and one Checker up front at self-check. Terri would have to climb into the baler to retrieve that cart. Wouldn’t she?
    And I’ll be there to push the crush button.
    After completing my résumé, I shoot an e-mail to HR informing them that I want to apply for the Assistant Manager position.
    The chili smells amazing. I give each pot a stir and taste it. Add a little salt, turn off the heat.
    Finally, I can relax.
    The potluck starts in two hours. After all the stress I’ve been through lately, I’m looking forward to a diversion.
    I decide to wash my hair and take a long soak in the tub.

    The bathwater has turned red. Body parts float around the tub. A thumb bobs past my right breast. A foot touches my big toe. A mangled tongue emerges through pink bubbles, so does a gnawed finger, a chewed up penis, and some other thing I can’t distinguish.
    I wake with a start, splashing water and shivering. The bath has gone cold. I pull the drain and stand, reach for a towel. Looking down, I see a trickle of red moving along the inside of my thigh to my calf. At first I think I’m still dreaming, then the dull cramp in my gut makes me realize it’s that time of month.
    I towel myself off, wipe off the blood. (I needed to do laundry anyway.) I plug the hole in the dyke with a tampon (Hahaha … I’m not gay), then search through the cabinet, shoving aside aspirin, sunscreen, and a small jar that contains something shriveled that I suspect is an ear. Having no idea how long the ear (or whatever) has been there or who it belonged to, I toss the jar into the wastepaper basket. Finally, I find Motrin and down three.
    The bath off my bedroom has no tub, only a shower, so when I want to soak I use the bathroom off the hallway. The bathroom is smallish, no window, so it’s private. The tile is white, as are the sink and tub. Built for utility rather than luxury.
    Wrapped in the damp towel, I cross the hall to my bedroom, open the sliding door leading to the balcony, and step outside. The day is warm, and late afternoon sun blazes in the clear blue sky. To the north, I see mountains, their peaks barren in late July, but come early September snow will fall above tree line. I climb onto the folding chair, wondering exactly where Justus went down. In my mind’s eye, I see him falling near the entrance to the parking lot, but I may have made that up.
    I calculate the minute dimensions of the balcony,