Sex and Murder Magazine

By Josh Olsen

Jameson loosened his poorly knotted tie—lunch break. It was a late lunch, nearly three in the afternoon on a Monday, but lunch no less. Kirk Kirkpatrick, typical young executive asshole and Jameson’s immediate superior, followed closely behind, cell phone to his ear.

“Hold on,” Kirk said into his phone. “Yo, Jameson! Jag’s in the shop. Give me a ride to lunch. My treat.”

Jameson begrudgingly caved and drove his powder blue Mercury Sable while Kirk barked orders.

“Pull in here,” Kirk said to Jameson. “The drive-thru…The drive-thru—fuck!”

Jameson pulled into the drive thru of Gordy’s, a local fast food enterprise infamous for artery-blocking fare such as the Gordy, the Gordy Double, the Bacon Gordy Double, the “Western” Bacon Gordy Double, and the Gordy Supreme.

“Order me the Gordy Combo with no cheese and onion rings…No fries, motherfucker!” Kirk said with zeal.

The intercom clicked—Welcome to Gordy’s, would you like to try a Chili-Cheese Gordy Coney Combo? Only $3.99!

“No, thank you,” Jameson said politely. “I’ll take a regular Gordy Combo, please, with no cheese and onion rings. No fries…and…uh…a Gordy Garden Salad with Thousand Island dressing.”

The intercom clicked again—I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have Thousand Island.

“Shit…what do you have?” Jameson asked.

Creamy Italian, Peppercorn Ranch, Western French, Honey Mustard Vinaigrette, and Gordy’s House Bean and Bacon Bleu Cheese.

“I’ll have the Vinaigrette, please.”

“Ask for a side of Supreme sauce,” Kirk suggested.

“Actually, could I just have a side of Gordy Supreme sauce, please?”

The intercom was momentarily silent.

“Hello?”

Gordy Supreme sauce, sir?

Jameson looked at Kirk, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Kirk said, “it’s fucking Thousand Island dressing.”

“Yes, please,” said Jameson into the intercom.

Jameson drove his car forward to the pick-up window where Steve, drive-thru boy and voice of the intercom, extended his open hand, palm up, through the window, “Nine forty-four, please.”

Jameson pretended to look through his pockets, aware that Kirk offered to pay for lunch.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Kirk consoled. “I got it…You douchebags take plastic?”

Kirk took out a credit card and flipped it up at Steve, who caught it against his chest. Before handing it back, he studied the name.

“Thank you, Mr. Kirkpatrick, and have a nice day!”

Jameson and Kirk sat in the Mercury Sable and ate their lunch.

“See, what did I say?” said Kirk between bites of grilled meat and cheese. “Fucking Thousand Island.”

A glob of mayo, ketchup, and mustard hung from Kirk’s cleft-chin.

“Some secret,” said Jameson, forking a plastic bowl of wilted mixed greens.

*****

Craig, the general manager of Gordy’s, calculated the day’s totals while his employees degreased the restaurant.

After counting down each till from the “front of the house,” he moved on to the drive-thru. It wasn’t uncommon for Craig to come across occasional shortages, but Big Gordy, the founder and namesake of Gordy’s, ran what he referred to as a “tight ship,” and when Craig did encounter a minor shortage, it came out of his own pocket. He would rather cough up the spare change than present a short till.

While counting down drive-thru till #1, Craig came upon a suspicious receipt.

“Steve!” Craig called out over his shoulder, leaning back in his chair. “Steve?”

No answer.

Craig left the small office and searched his crew. Eventually, Craig found Steve out by the dumpster, passing a thin joint between several employees.

“Steve!”

Craig knew Steve was one of five employees getting high, but it was dark and difficult to tell them apart. They all wore purple and black polyester and smelled like fried onions.

“Steve, come to my office. The rest of you guys get back inside. The grease traps ain’t gonna clean themselves!”

Back in his office, Craig snatched Steve by the collar and pinned him up against the wall.

“What the fuck is this?” asked Craig, holding the receipt in question under Steve’s nose.

“It’s a receipt, sir,” answered Steve.

“Yes, it’s a receipt, but what the fuck does it say?” asked Craig.

“Gordy Combo, no cheese, rings, and a Gordy Garden.”

“Anything else, Steve?”

“Nothing else, sir.”

“No, dressing?”

“No.”

“Just a little Gordy Supreme sauce?”

“A side of it.”

“For what?”

“For a Gordy Garden Salad, sir.”

“Was he not informed of our Creamy Italian or Honey Mustard Vinaigrette or our House Bean and Bacon Bleu Cheese?”

“He was, sir.”

“And he insisted on the Gordy Supreme sauce?”

“Yes, sir…he said something about Thousand Island.”

“And what did you say?”

“I suggested the Creamy Italian or the Honey Mustard Vinaigrette or the Bean and Bacon Bleu Cheese. I told him we don’t have Thousand Island. I told him he’d have to make another choice. I swear!”

“And, yet, he chose the sauce of the Gordy Supreme?”

“Yes.”

“The secret sauce of the Gordy Supreme?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In lieu of Thousand Island dressing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Craig released the crumpled collar of Steve’s uniform and took a second to straighten himself up. He used his hands to slick back his hair and brushed the lint from his purple sweater vest.

“Well, Steve,” Craig started, “I see no other option than for you to personally pay a visit to Mr. Kirkpatrick. Are we clear?”

Steve was silent.

“I said, are we clear?”

Steve nodded.

*****

Kirk handed a mojito to Debbie, a young brunette who reeked of sexuality. Debbie took one sip of the cold rum and mint cocktail and began to squirm.

“Do you mind if I take off my jacket?” asked Debbie. “It’s awful hot in your condo, Kirk.”

“Please,” said Kirk, “feel free to take off anything you wish.”

Debbie accepted Kirk’s offer and slid her tank top down over her high, firm breasts.

“How about this?” she asked.

“Works for me,” said Kirk.

Debbie set down her cocktail, stood up, lifted her skirt, and removed her black panties. Kirk nearly choked on a wedge of lime. Debbie climbed onto Kirk and began riding him ferociously.

The door bell rang.

“Who the fuck is that?” asked Debbie.

The bell rang several more times while Kirk fucked Debbie doggystyle.

“Fuckin’ A!” Kirk spat, out of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

Kirk got up off his knees to open the door. Debbie made her way to the bathroom, closed and locked the door, turned on the shower, and got in once steam filled the room.

Kirk opened the door, naked and still fully erect.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”

“Mr. Kirkpatrick?” Steve asked, standing outside the door in full Gordy’s regalia.

“That’s right, fag,” Kirk answered, cock slowly deflating.

Steve reached out with a taser and zapped Kirk in the sternum. Kirk dropped to the floor, convulsing violently and foaming at the mouth.

At first, Steve panicked and stayed out in the hallway while Kirk flopped around on the carpet and sprayed liquid shit, but then he realized he had to put him down.

Steve raised his foot and planted the heel of his work boot in Kirk’s face, immediately splitting Kirk’s nose and lip. Steve stomped Kirk several more times until he lay still on the carpet, smeared in blood and excrement.

Steve entered Kirk’s condo and closed the door behind him. He felt for Kirk’s pulse, then heard the shower.

“Was that my pizza?” Debbie called from the bathroom.

Steve didn’t answer.

“Kirk?” Debbie called out. “Who was it?”

“No one, baby,” Steve answered, attempting to lower his voice several octaves. “No one.”

“Ok…I’m kinda horny again,” Debbie said. “Turn off the lights, would you?”

Steve fumbled to find, and then turn off, the lights in the living room.

Debbie stepped out of the bathroom without toweling off.

“Take a seat,” Debbie said.

Steve obeyed.

Debbie dropped to her knees in front of Steve and caressed his thin thighs, but recoiled at the acrylic slickness of Steve’s polyester pants

“Do I smell fried onions?” Debbie asked, and Steve tasered her, as well.

*****

Jameson dropped quarters into a vending machine and a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Tater Skins dropped from its designated shelf behind the Plexiglas window. Jameson picked up the Tater Skins and slid five more quarters into the pop machine.

Buzz, one of Jameson’s coworkers, snuck up behind him and playfully smacked him upside the head.

“Good news,” said Buzz.

“Your crabs went away?”

“No, not yet,” said Buzz, pretending to scratch his genitals. “Kirkpatrick’s missing, he’s fucking missing!”

“I thought you had good news,” said Jameson, exhausted.

“Good news for you,” said Buzz, stroking his thin blonde mustache. “Very fucking good news for you. So good, in fact, I’d say you are the prime suspect.”

“So, he missed a shift. Big deal.”

“When’s the last time Kirk didn’t show for work?” asked Buzz.

“Last Wednesday,” said Jameson, without hesitation.

“It’s your world, Jameson,” Buzz proclaimed, then left the break room.

But immediately after Buzz departed, Jameson’s boss burst in.

“Jameson, my man, how the fuck are ya’?” Mr. Michaels asked, then took a long drink from his coffee mug. World’s Greatest Grandpa it said in colorful balloon letters, though Mr. Michaels had no children, let alone grandchildren.

“Good, great, Mr. Michaels. And you?”

“I feel like shit, Jameson, and do you know why I feel like shit?”

“Can’t say that I do,” said Jameson.

“I feel like shit 'cause I don’t know where the fuck my top exec is. Can you feel my pain?”

“I can, sir,” Jameson answered.

“Tell me,” Mr. Michaels took another long drink from his mug, “are you a friend of Kirk Kirkpatrick’s?”

“I guess so,” said Jameson. He could see where this was leading.

“But would you say that, despite your friendship, you envy his superior position to your own?”

Jameson exhaled deeply before answering.

“I don’t understand what it is you’re getting at, Mr. Michaels.”

“Just answer the question. Do you envy Kirk Kirkpatrick?”

“Honestly? No, I don’t.”

“I need not remind you that you are the prime suspect.”

“Of course not, Mr. Michaels,” Jameson replied.

“Carry on then, Jameson. Keep up the good work.”

Mr. Michaels gave Jameson a hearty pat on the back and exited the break room.

Finally, he was alone.

Jameson took a seat, tore open his bag of Tater Skins, and finished the entire bag before cracking open his can of Mt. Dew.

Midway through the twelve ounce can, Chloe—tall and thin but with edible curves—entered the break room.

“So, I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, feeding loose change into the pop machine, her back to Jameson.

He took the opportunity to closely watch the small of her back, the skin tight over the muscles that led down to her delicious ass.

“Please, not now,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked, twisting the top off a Diet Coke. “You’re Mr. Michaels’ new man. His right hand lackey.”

“Kirk will be back,” Jameson said. “He’ll show up with a nasty hangover, an STD, and an excuse. Trust me. Then I’ll be right back where I belong, at the bottom.”

“Well now, that doesn’t say much for me. Ex-girlfriend of a bottom feeder?”

“I never called myself a bottom feeder. I’m not a bottom feeder, not me.”

“Kirk’s a bottom feeder?”

“Kirk’s a jack-off.”

“You really think he’ll show?”

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Technically, he isn’t even a missing person.”

“So, what are you doing after work?” Chloe asked in an attempt to change the subject.

“I don’t know,” Jameson said, stretching and yawning. “I was thinking about hitting the gym, maybe do some cardio.”

“You’re working out now?” she asked skeptically.

“Ok, I’ll probably just get something to eat, go home, and go to sleep.”

“Would you like some company?”

“No, not tonight,” he said while yearning to fall asleep next to that ass. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Got a hot date?”

“Yeah, with some Gordy’s curly fries,” he answered.

“You know, you really should stop eating that shit. It’s gonna kill you someday.”

Jameson looked down at his steadily increasing waistband and thought of his most recent commutes to work and back. When he hit potholes, he could feel his body jiggle underneath his clothes. The last thing he needed was an order of curly fires.

*****

Steve mopped the lobby at Gordy’s while Craig sat in his office punching numbers into an adding machine.

Rather abruptly, Craig stopped his number crunching and called out to Steve.

“Could you come in here, please?”

Steve dropped his mop.

“Aye aye, sir,” he mumbled to himself and entered Craig’s office.

“Shut the door,” Craig said to Steve, though it was near closing and Craig and Steve were alone in the restaurant.

“How’d it go last night?” Craig asked Steve.

“Great,” Steve said. “Both suspects are in custody and prepped for interrogation, sir.”

“Both suspects?”

“Yes, sir. The man, Kirk Kirkpatrick, and the woman.”

“What woman?” asked Craig, perturbed.

“The woman who was with Mr. Kirkpatrick, sir,” he answered.

“With him when?” Craig asked.

“When I obtained Mr. Kirkpatrick, sir.”

“Not when the order for the side of Gordy Supreme sauce was placed?”

“No, sir, the woman was not present at the time of the order—It was Mr. Kirk Kirkpatrick and another man…the driver, sir.”

“At the time of the order, Steve?”

“At the time of the order, sir.”

“Then why is there a woman is custody?”

“She was present at the time of the apprehension of Mr. Kirkpatrick, sir.”

“And you couldn’t leave her behind?”

“She was a witness, sir.”

“Witness?”

“Yes.”

“Witness to what, Steve?”

“Witness to the apprehension and detainment of Mr. Kirkpatrick, sir.”

“And I don’t suppose you happened to remove your uniform before you apprehended Mr. Kirkpatrick and his…lady friend? Did you, Steve?”

“No, I did not, sir.”

“And why, might I ask, did you not remove your uniform before apprehending Mr. Kirkpatrick? Why did you not make any attempt to conceal your identity?”

“Well,” Steve explained, “it was quicker for me to go straight from work to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s apartment than for me to drive all the way home to change my clothes and then make my way to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s apartment, sir. It was a matter of convenience, sir.”

“Convenience?” Craig asked.

“Convenience, sir,” Steve answered.

“Is it convenient that the other suspect in question continues to roam the streets of this great and free nation with what he believes to be the secret in the secret sauce of the Gordy Supreme?”

“No, sir.”

“And is it convenient to this establishment, this place of employment, this house of nourishment and culinary delight that, as we speak, this very fucking moment, there is a man who walks the streets of America and blasphemes the national treasure that is the secret sauce of the Gordy Supreme by equating its likeness to the rudimentary sludge known as ‘Thousand Island’ salad dressing?”

“No, sir.”

“And would it not be most convenient for me to slit your fucking throat right now in front of God and Big Gordy himself?”

Steve choked on his words.

“I don’t know how to answer that question, sir.”

Craig removed a boxcutter from his hip pocket and raised it to Steve’s Adam’s apple.

“How can I make it any clearer?” Craig asked.

Suddenly, a voice called out from the lobby.

“Hello? The door was unlocked. Are you open?”

Steve approached the one lone cash register that remained open and before it stood Jameson, dressed in a grey, cotton sweatsuit.

“Hello,” said Jameson with genuine courtesy. “Is it too late to order?”

Steve did not immediately recognize Jameson, the fugitive party, and on his face he plastered an obligatory smile and began to take his order.

“Welcome to Gordy’s,” Steve said. “Would you be interested in trying a Gordy-Jita Combo?”

“No, thank you,” Jameson replied. “I’ll take a...”

And suddenly Steve recognized Jameson and nearly soiled his polyester slacks.

“Or, would you like a salad, sir?” Steve interrupted. “We have a delicious variety of crisp mixed-green salads made fresh to order.”

“No, thank you,” said Jameson. “I’ll take…”

“A Chef Salad, perhaps? Or a Garden Salad? A Gordy Garden Salad? The Gordy Garden is our featured item of the month, sir.”

“No. Thank you,” said Jameson, firmly.

“We have many dressings to choose from,” said Steve in an attempt to grab Craig’s attention. “House Bean and Bacon Bleu Cheese, Peppercorn Ranch, Honey Mustard Vinaigrette, Thousand Island.”

“I thought you didn’t have Thousand Island,” said Jameson.

“Well…that’s because we don’t,” answered Steve.

“But you just said Thousand Island.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Steve. “You must be thinking of another operation, sir. We do not carry Thousand Island salad dressing.”

“Fine, I didn’t want a salad, anyway.”

“I said,” Steve called over his shoulder towards Craig’s office, “we don’t carry Thousand Island salad dressing, sir. I am truly and most sincerely sorry.”

“And I said I don’t want a fucking salad!” exclaimed Jameson, frustrated at Steve’s apparent incompetence.

“I assure you,” Steve said, “there is no need to yell. We may not have Thousand Island salad dressing, but perhaps another, more readily available, sauce on our menu may suit your palate. Barbeque? Tartar? Ketchup? Mayo? Or perhaps you would care for a side of the sacred, I mean secret sauce of the Gordy Supreme? Great! One side of Supreme sauce coming right up, sir! Anything else for you tonight? Would you care to try a Gordy-Jita combo?”

Finally, over the clicking of his adding machine, Craig overheard Steve and Jameson’s conversation and ran from his office and shoved Steve from the register.

“I’m terribly sorry about Steve,” Craig consoled. “He is a new employee, still in training, and a member of our ‘special crew,’ if you catch my drift. Now, what can I get for you? A Gordy Garden, was it?

“No! No salad, fuck, just give me the fucking Gordy-Jita combo! Jesus Christ!”

“Would you like salsa, guacamole, Thousand Island salad dressing, or sour cream with that?” Craig pried.

“All except the Thousand Island,” Jameson said.

“What?” Craig asked. “You don’t like Thousand Island salad dressing on your Gordy-Jita?”

“First of all,” Jameson said, “I don’t know what the fuck a Gordy-Jita is and, secondly, you don’t have Thousand Island, unless you count the Gordy Supreme sauce.”

Craig and Steve gasped in horror.

“Are you sure?” Craig asked Steve.

“Positive!” Steve replied.

Craig turned his attention back to Jameson. “Your Gordy-Jita combo will be ready shortly. Thank you.”

Steve handed Jameson an empty cup.

“Help yourself to our self-serve beverage bar,” Steve said to Jameson.

“Thanks. I will,” Jameson said and left the counter to fill his cup.

“Are you sure?” Craig asked, again.

“Positive!” Steve replied.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Craig said to Steve, handing him a taser. “I’ll lock the doors.”

Craig walked out into the lobby to lock the doors on both sides of the restaurant.

“If you’re closing up, I can take this to go,” said Jameson.

“Nonsense.” said Craig.

“You know, you didn’t take my money, yet,” said Jameson.

“On the house,” said Craig. “Enjoy. Courtesy of Big Gordy.”

“What?” Jameson asked.

“Order up!” Steve called out, placing Jameson’s tray of food down on the counter.

Jameson put his drink down so he could take the tray from Steve.

“You got it?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jameson said, picking up the tray.

“Enjoy!” Steve shrieked and tasered Jameson in the neck. “You fucking heretic!”

Jameson dropped to the floor, out cold.

“I got him, Craig! I fucking got him!” Steve squealed, jumping out from behind the register, dancing around Jameson’s body.

“Praise Gordy,” Craig professed while removing a chrome-plated, snub-nose revolver from his back pocket. He shot Steve in the face, splattering the back of his skull across the freshly mopped lobby, then unloaded five superfluous rounds into his corpse.

*****

One single dim bulb burned in the small, dank room.

Jameson sat, bound and gagged, in a green fold-out lawnchair. On his neck was an electrical burn.

Greg, a young, enthusiastic Gordy’s employee, threw a murky bucket of mop-water in Jameson’s face.

Jameson thrashed in his restraints, until he realized there was no easy escape.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey.” said Greg into Jameson’s face.

He smelled like fried onions, Jameson thought.

“Relax, man, save that juice for later.”

Jameson was both confused and disturbed by Greg’s remarks.

A muscular woman in a purple and black luchador mask and matching leather two-piece bikini, stepped out from the shadows and whipped Greg with a cat-o-nine-tails.

The frayed ends tore open Greg’s uniform and cut deeply into the skin on his back.

“Shut your goddamn piehole!” the woman bellowed.

Greg dropped to his knees in pain.

“Yes, Madam Olga, whatever you desire.”

Crawling on all fours, Greg backed away from Jameson and cowered at Madam Olga’s bare feet.

She removed Greg’s visor and stroked his prematurely thinning hair.

“My child, my silly, stupid child,” Madam Olga cooed, petting him. “Mommy loves you, but you say too much.”

And with a single hand, she snapped Greg’s neck and tossed him into a corner.

“Please, pay no attention to Greg,” Madam Olga said to Jameson. “He has just recently completed training and is appropriately excited, as is expected, but he has a bit of a loose mouth.”

Madam Olga approached Jameson’s chair and laid a hand on his cheek.

”I am more than confident you have no qualms with my methods of discipline. And that is all that it is, nothing more than discipline, and I need not assure you that Greg was in dire need of it…May I loosen your gag?” Madam Olga asked, working on the buckle that held the ball-gag in place. “I cannot help but stand here and think of tastier items that could more comfortably fit into your mouth.”

Madam Olga straddled Jameson, still bound to the lawnchair. Its flimsy aluminum frame buckled under their combined weight.

“You must be very hungry,” said Madam Olga.

“I can’t say that I am,” Jameson replied.

“Is there anything in particular you crave?” asked Madam Olga

“I can’t say that there is,” answered Jameson,

“Nothing?” asked Madam Olga, revealing one giant breast.

She placed her hand behind Jameson’s head and guided his face towards her chest.

“How about a little mother’s milk?”

At first, Jameson resisted Madam Olga’s hardened nipple, the brown areola the circumference of a silver dollar pancake, but after nearly being suffocated by her flesh, he gave in and drank.

Madam Olga seemed to receiv great pleasure from his suckling, as though it relieved an immense pressure.

Jameson swallowed heavily, quenching his thirst. The milk was thick, sweet, and hot.

Madam Olga exposed her other breast and guided Jameson’s hand to it. Jameson squeezed the engorged breast with passion and hunger as Madam Olga moaned in pleasure.

“Yes! Drink! Mommy’s gonna fatten you up!”

Madam Olga let go of Jameson’s hand and ran her fingers through his hair.

She ground her pelvis into his.

Jameson quickly became aroused, but acknowledged his window of opportunity and bit down until his teeth met, severing Madam Olga’s nipple.

Screaming and gripping her chest, she jumped up off of Jameson’s lap.

Blood poured between her fingers.

Jameson struggled for freedom and broke the fragile chair he was tied to.

Hands freed, Jameson laid into Madam Olga, landing several haymakers to her jaw, but even in her seemingly vulnerable condition, Jameson’s fists were no match for her iron chin.

Madam Olga head-butted Jameson, shattering his nose, and knocked him into a brief coma.

*****

Hawaiian Shirt Day! read the banister that hung from the ceiling. Everyone cantered around wearing lays and grass skirts and sipping “virgin” mai-tais. Don Ho and ukuleles cried through the PA system.

Hawaiian Shirt Day was meant to be a morale booster, like Jeans Day and Pajama Day and Silly-Hat Day, but Chloe loathed it. In fact, the only work related ritual she ever partook in was the occasional Margarita Night, and all that involved was two limes, a bottle of gold tequila, and Jameson. And what made this particular Hawaiian Shirt Day even more unbearable was the absence of Jameson, who she usually tag-team loathed with.

It was almost noon and he was nowhere to be found.

Maybe Jameson and Kirk eloped to Vegas! Chloe overheard someone jokingly say that morning, along with multiple other homosexual allusions. San Francisco and “Gay” Paris were two other possible destinations referenced in miscellaneous conversations she eavesdropped into. Leather chaps and KY jelly were snickered about, as well.

Chloe fantasized about lobbing Molotov cocktails into the whole fucking lot.

Mr. Michaels snuck up beside Chloe and poked her in the side.

“Boo!”

The colors of his Hawaiian shirt matched his nonalcoholic daiquiri, but as he got closer to Chloe and she could smell the potency of his breath, it was clear he had spiked his own drink.

“Did I frighten you, Chloe Daniels?” asked Mr. Michaels with a slight slur.

“No, sir, just a little surprised,” she said, annoyed.

“I must apologize,” Mr. Michaels confided. “My intent wasn’t of the malevolent type, but I can never seem to resist when I see such a pretty young girl sitting helplessly with her back turned. It is a weakness of mine. So, tell me Chloe, honestly, how do you like life down here in the lion’s den? Is it to your satisfaction? Is this what you aspired for?”

“Honestly?” she asked. “It’s fine, Mr. Michaels, just fine.”

“And how’s Jameson?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered. “Jameson and I keep a professional distance between each other. Especially since I’ve been put back in the lion’s den, as you so poetically referred to it as.”

“You’ve received no word since his departure?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well then, I trust you will keep me informed if you hear any nasty rumors about where he has run off to?”

“From what I’ve heard, you might want to try Amsterdam. Seems he and Kirk finally went through with those sex-change operations they’ve always talked so highly about.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Daniels.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Mr. Michaels turned to leave Chloe and return to the rampant office hi-jinx at hand, but had a sudden change of heart and decided to stick one more needle in her for good measure.

“Oh, and Chloe, if you ever get tired of slumming it, come on up and see me. I might have a position for you…under myself, that is.”

Mr. Michaels smiled at his own joke.

“Thanks,” Chloe said, dipping her finger in Mr. Michaels’ cocktail and then sucking it clean, “but I prefer to be on top.”

*****

Jameson fluttered in and out of consciousness, until the sudden explosion of pain that engulfed his face woke him completely. Madame Olga’s thick cranium had destroyed his nose and it felt as though shards of bone had lodged in the back of his blacked over and swelled shut eyes.

The gag that had been removed was back, strapped firmly in place, but Jameson hadn’t even noticed, since the teeth he had lost allowed for extra room for the red-rubber-ball.

Jameson wasn’t a vain man, but the pain that he felt made him afraid of what his face must look like. It was far worse than he imagined.

This distracted him to a point where he hadn’t even noticed the pin-prick of discomfort he experienced in his lower back, which he quickly disregarded as insignificant.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Craig fumed. “Olga?”

“That bastard bit my goddamn nipple off.” Madam Olga whined.

Jameson’s head snapped at the sound of the voices and quickly found Madam Olga, sulkily rubbing her breast. Dried blood crusted her chest and stomach.

Craig stood with a clipboard in his hand and two small Gordy’s employees by his side, two identical dwarves in purple and black polyester.

Jameson scanned their chests but could not find any nametags.

“Well?” Craig said accusingly. “What was your nipple doing in his mouth, in the first place?”

“He looked hungry, sir,” Madam Olga replied, surprisingly earnest.

“Olga, we are all fully aware that one breast of yours, alone, could feed the world’s homeless, but please, when you are at work, make an effort to keep your clothes on.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, cradling her breast.

“It’ll grow back,” Craig said, and the two dwarves giggled. “When the cat is away, the mice will play.”

Craig snapped his fingers at the dwarves.

“Clean up this mess!”

“Right away, sir,” the dwarves answered, in unison, grabbing a mop and bucket from the corner of the room and proceeding to swab the bloody floor.

Craig scribbled something into his clipboard.

“Time to lean, time to clean,” Craig said to himself. “Olga, go to my office and fill out a workman’s comp. form. We’ll say it was the cheese grater.”

“Right away, sir,” Madam Olga answered, visibly embarrassed, and opened a door.

On the other side were bright lights and the sounds of a busy kitchen; the sizzle of hot grease, the clatter and ring of utensils, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on a waxed floor. The smell of fried onions filled the air.

Madam Olga walked out into the light, luchador mask over her face, rippling torso smeared in blood , and was welcomed by several indifferent voices.

Afternoon, Olga. How you doing, Olga? You’re five minutes late, Olga. Grab an apron and get on fries.

The door closed behind her, leaving Jameson with Craig and his two dwarves.

“Prepare this man for interrogation!” Craig barked.

The dwarves giggled, dropped their mops, and removed the gag from Jameson’s mouth. Saliva and blood spilled into his lap. Without his teeth, Jameson’s mouth was little more than a big wet hole. One of the dwarves slapped Jameson across the face.

“Was that necessary?” asked Jameson.

“No,” said Craig, answering for the dwarf, “but I’m sure it was fun.”

“What have you done to me?” Jameson asked, and was slapped again—this time by the other dwarf.

“Please, I’ll ask the questions.” Craig pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Jameson. “What is your name?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Your name…Last name first, first name last, middle initial.”

“Go fuck yourself!” Jameson screamed.

“Last name first. First name last. Middle initial.”

“Let me go,” Jameson pleaded. “I haven’t done anything! I won’t tell anyone!”

The dwarves took turns punching Jameson in his torso.

“You’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be,” said Craig. “What is your name?”

“Jameson,” he said, defeated. “Anthony D.”

“What is your permanent address?”

“Why do you need my address?

“Answer the questions and you will be released.”

“I want your word.”

“You have my word.”

“I don’t believe you!”

The dwarves giggled and Craig leaned back in his chair and stretched. His spine popped in several places.

“Need I remind you that you are in no position to question me? Whether or not I keep my word, the result will be the same. You will tell me what I want to hear and if your answers are satisfactory the interview will end and you will be released.”

“What if my answers are not satisfactory?”

“Well, let’s not be distracted by the possibility of unsatisfactory results. Keep your chin up. Think positive. There is no room for pessimism at Gordy’s. We are only concerned with quality control.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I see you refuse to cooperate, so I’ll cut to the chase.” Craig set down his pen and clipboard. “What, do you believe, is in the secret sauce of the Gordy Supreme?”

Jameson did not answer.

“Please, allow me to repeat myself, what is the ‘secret’ in the secret sauce?”

“You’re not serious!” Jameson exclaimed, dumbfounded.

Craig leaned forward in his chair.

“You have no idea,” he said.

Jameson burst into laughter, but Craig and his dwarves did not.

“Thousand Island!” Jameson confessed between shaking fits of hysterics. “Is that what you want to hear? Have I cracked the code? Is that what this is all supposed to be about? The fucking ‘secret’ sauce?”

Craig blushed, then reddened, then contorted into a purple mass of twitches and veins.

“Silence!” he cried out, furious, backhanding Jameson.

Jameson stopped laughing and started bleeding.

Craig took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the blood from his knuckles.

“Whatever happened to ‘the customer’s always right?’” Jameson asked, attempting to smile.

The dwarves withheld their giggles.

“Extraction,” Craig said in the direction of his pint-size employees, and walked out the room, leaving the door wide open, again filling the small dark space with light and sound.

Tied securely to a wheeled desk-chair, the dwarves rolled Jameson out through the light and into the kitchen where he was surrounded by countless young subordinates in purple and black polyester who flipped and assembled burgers, dropped fries, and filled paper bags with tightly wrapped sandwiches.

Either they couldn’t see him or just didn’t care. Their apathy scared Jameson more than anything else.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jameson saw Madam Olga salting a fresh batch of onion rings. It took a moment to recognize her, her body hidden underneath the standard issue Gordy’s uniform, but he suddenly realized that, without her mask, she was little more than a plain, big-boned girl who made minimum wage.

Madam Olga (or just “Olga,” as it said on her nametag) saw Jameson’s battered face and blew him a kiss.

*****

Chloe punched out early and spent the last hour of her shift behind the wheel of her Volkswagen Jetta. This was her hometown, but she did not know it, as some would say, like the back of her hand. On occasion, while aimlessly driving with no clear destination in mind, she found streets she had never known and houses she had never seen. She found garage sales and stopped and rummaged through strangers’ lives, wondering where they had been all of hers.

Ever since Chloe and Jameson split up, these long quiet drives had become more and more frequent as her time in the car helped fill the awkward loneliness she was not accustomed to. Maybe it was because she believed their separation had come too soon, that it hadn’t been a result of infidelity or irreconcilable differences, but instead the demands of work. More specifically, the demands of Mr. Michaels.

When Mr. Michaels discovered the on-the-job romance that had bloomed between Chloe Daniels and Anthony Jameson, he became jealous and was quick to act, threatening both Chloe and Jameson with immediate termination—unless they agreed to keep their distance from one another, which they did. And it was this distance, of no more than ten to twenty feet, eight hours a day, five days a week, which tortured Chloe.

Had Jameson been willing to leave his job, pack up and find something else, something better, Chloe would have gone right along with. But, he did not. Could not, he said. And so, Chloe and Jameson kept their jobs, received their checks, and kept a reasonable distance from one another while Mr. Michaels observed and received great pleasure from their mutual suffering.

Chloe whipped a U-turn and started towards home, but was caught off-guard by the big neon Gordy’s sign that loomed in the not-too-distant horizon.

Might as well pick up dinner, she thought, digging through her handbag for loose cash, steadying the steering wheel with her knees.

Chocolate shake and an order of rings, she decided. And barbeque sauce, too, lots of barbeque sauce.

Chloe was in the drive-thru lane when she remembered Jameson’s after-work plans from the night before.

It couldn’t hurt to check, she thought to herself, and quickly pulled out of the drive-thru lane and parked her silver Jetta.

“Welcome to Gordy’s, would you like to try a Gordy-Jita?” asked Burt.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said shyly, “but I don’t suppose you recognize the man in this picture?”

She held out a creased Polaroid, the only picture she still had of Jameson, taken spontaneously amid one of their last Margarita Nights. Burt took the picture from Chloe and examined it closely, front and back.

“No, sorry,” he said, handing it back.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I think he was in here last night and now he’s missing. Are you sure you don’t recognize him?”

“I was off last night,” Burt explained. “But I can ask my manager.”

Burt turned and yelled out over his shoulder to the man filling soft drinks.

“Craig!” Burt called.

Craig jumped at the sound of his name and spilled a Diet Coke.

“What is it, Burt? I’m right over here, you know.”

“This lady’s asking about a missing person.”

“Missing person?” he asked curiously, making his way over to Chloe. “How may I help you ma’am?”

Chloe handed Craig the Polaroid.

“Have you seen this man? I believe he was in here last night.”

Craig instantly recognized Jameson, but showed no sign of panic or guilt. A small smile crossed his lips, but he hid it by coughing into his fist.

“Last night?” he asked, taking extra time to investigate the poorly lit picture.

In it, Jameson and Chloe had their arms around each other and were smiling drunkenly, drunk with tequila and lust; though, at the time, Chloe had mistaken it for another four-lettered emotion.

“Boyfriend?” Craig asked without taking his eyes off the picture.

“What?” Chloe responded. The question caught her by surprise. “Uh, yeah, fiancé,” she said, thinking her concerns may sound more valid if she and the missing party shared a serious relationship.

Craig looked down at Chloe’s hand, devoid of any jewels, and she slipped it into her pocket.

“I never wear it to work,” she offered.

Craig seemed to interpret the lack of a ring as a sign of promiscuity.

“Me, too,” he said, wiggling his ring finger.

Chloe noticed how small and child-like Craig’s hand was and cringed.

“Have you seen him?” Chloe asked impatiently.

Craig had taken his time with the picture and now it hung loosely in his hand while he ogled Chloe.

“No,” responded Craig. “Can’t say that I have. But you mind if I hold on to this? You know, show it around to my employees, see if it strikes a chord.”

“Well, I guess,” said Chloe. “But, please be careful. It’s my only copy.”

“Of course,” said Craig, “will do.”

“Thanks,” Chloe said to Craig, offering her hand.

Craig shook it firmly and held on a little too long. Chloe felt violated.

She was on her way out the door when Craig called out to her.

“Can I get your number?” Craig asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You know, in case anything comes up. Any leads.”

Chloe pulled a card from her handbag and gave it to Craig at arm’s length, avoiding any skin-on-skin contact.

“Please, if you hear anything, call me at home or on my cell.”

“Anything you want, Miss,” Craig looked at the name printed on the card. “Chloe Daniels.”

Before Chloe was back in her Jetta, Craig had locked himself into his office.

He threw the Polaroid onto his desk, unzipped his polyester slacks, pulled out his cock, spit into the palm of his hand, and masturbated violently.

He focused his attention on Chloe’s tan neckline, partially obscured by a string of colorful plastic beads which hung down low into her plump cleavage.

“Chloeee…Chloeee…Chloeeeeee,” he rhythmically moaned, playing with each syllable, feeling his tongue against his teeth. He ejaculated directly onto the Polaroid.

*****

Jameson sat in the back of a galvanized dry-storage warehouse where a space had been cleared for a large stainless steel mixing bowl into which the dwarves poured the pink contents from several large plastic tubs.

Thousand Island dressing.

Jameson laughed. One of the dwarves noticed and began to giggle, as well. The laughter was contagious, and soon Jameson and both dwarves roared with laughter. Jameson continued to laugh as the dwarves unlocked and opened a shallow broom closet and pushed Kirk, bloody, exhausted, naked, and tied to a similar rolling chair, out into the center of the warehouse, next to the mixer.

Jameson stopped laughing, but the dwarves did not. Their giggles intensified as shock and horror registered on Jameson’s face. The dwarves circled Jameson, jumping up and down, clapping their hands, giggling, playing ring around the rosy. Jameson’s heart raced and sweat poured from his body, but the dwarves only danced and played louder and faster.

The dwarves diverted their attention to Kirk and began spinning him in his chair. Jameson noticed something taped to Kirk’s back, a small plastic bag. The dwarves danced and giggled as one held Kirk still and the other removed the bag from his back. The dwarf pulled a box-cutter from his belt and gently punctured the bag, causing the fluid contents to spring out in a thin stream. He raised the bag to his mouth and took a long drink, then passed it to the other dwarf, who drank from the bag, as well.

The dwarves screamed with pure animal rage and slit Kirk’s throat, ear to ear. Blood coursed from Kirk’s neck and spilled onto the floor. Both dwarves put their mouths to the gaping wound and lapped the hot blood that spurted from Kirk’s veins.

Jameson vomited on the concrete floor.

One dwarf danced around Jameson, spitting Kirk’s blood into his face, while the other used his box-cutter to open Kirk’s torso, slicing him vertically from bellybutton to sternum. Again, the dwarves screamed, feeding off each other’s madness.

The dwarf with the box-cutter approached Jameson, teasing him, tonguing the blade. He accidentally sliced his lip, splitting it like a cat’s, but took no notice and placed the razor to Jameson’s open palm.

“Shut the fuck up!” Craig bellowed as the warehouse door exploded open.

Instantly, the dwarves went back to pouring Thousand Island into the mixer, ignoring Jameson and Kirk, who sat mutilated and limp in his chair. They watched intently as Craig approached the small open space reserved for the task at hand.

“Hello, Jameson,” said Craig, surprisingly cordial.

Craig glared at the dwarves, who acted as if they weren’t doused in Kirk’s bodily fluids.

“What the fuck do you monkeys think you’re doing?”

The dwarves were silent.

“You drank his fucking juice, didn’t you?”

Again, the dwarves did not respond.

“How the fuck are we supposed to finish the new batch when you motherfuckers drink all the juice?”

Craig charged at the dwarves, kicking one in the chest and backhanding the other.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to get more juice?”

The dwarves pouted, silently nursing their wounds, and Craig turned to Jameson, suddenly and frighteningly polite.

“Mr. Jameson, I most sincerely apologize for my employees’ behavior. What you witnessed isn’t our usual method of extraction. I ensure you our standard procedure is far more civilized.”

Craig walked over to Kirk, insincerely felt for a pulse, and glanced into the mixing bowl.

“You didn’t get any blood in there, did you?” Craig asked the dwarves.

They shook their heads.

“You see,” Craig said to Jameson, “counting Kirk and his ‘significant other,’ you would have been number three. But now you’re number two. And that’s not good enough. The sauce just wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t have that kick that Gordy’s customers have come to know and love and crave. And so, I’m at a slight disadvantage here. I mean, where am I supposed to find another body?”

Craig looked over at the dwarves and they both shrugged their shoulders.

“I should juice you bastards!” Craig exclaimed at the dwarves.

“And just look at you,” Craig said, turning to Jameson. “Ready to pop, I see.”

Confused, at first, Jameson suddenly realized that he, like Kirk, had one of those bags on his back.

Craig put one hand around Jameson’s throat and with the other reached around to squeeze the bag that had been taped to his back.

“Very good,” Craig said, molesting the bag, massaging it.

His breath smelled like coffee and his hand smelled like bleach.

“At least you boys did one thing right,” Craig said to the dwarves. “He’s ready to be emptied, but I want to make sure you do it right this time.”

Craig stood up, straightened his hair, and brushed off his sweater vest.

“Mr. Jameson,” Craig cooed, “I don’t suppose you happen to know of anyone else who might be willing to volunteer to have their adrenal gland milked, do you?”

Jameson was silent.

“That’s right, adrenaline. 100% pure! Mixed with Thousand Island dressing, of course. Masks the bitterness. But the adrenaline is what gives the sauce its trademark bite.”

Again, Jameson did not respond.

“Looks like we got at least a quart out of you. Pussy! Your friend, Kirk, barely squeezed out a pint and we really had to work to get that.” Craig extended his hand in Kirk’s direction. “As you can clearly see.”

Craig walked back over to Kirk and yanked his head by the hair until his cut throat began to tear.

“I guess he had bigger balls.”

Craig reached down between Kirk’s thighs and brutally twisted his scrotum.

“And, in the end, to get those last few drops, we had to kill his fucking whore. You’d be surprised how much adrenaline you can juice out of someone when you jam a loaded pistol in a loved one’s mouth.”

“Kirk didn’t have a loved one, you fucking animal!” Jameson spit, his mouth full of pink saliva.

“No?” Craig asked. “So, tell me, who was the cunt I executed last night, his mother?”

Jameson didn’t answer.

“So, what does that tell you? If I can milk a hard-ass like Kirk by snuffing some fucking cooze, how much do you think I could get out of a cum-rag like you?”

Craig approached Jameson with his hands in his pockets.

“And I’m not talking about some random fucking slag, I mean someone you really care about, someone you love.”

Craig pulled Chloe’s card out of his pocket.

“I’m talking about Miss Chloe Daniels.”

Jameson pretended as if the name meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t hide physiology.

His bag throbbed with pressure.

“Would you look at that?” Craig howled. “Get this son of a bitch another bag!”

The dwarves worked nimbly to disconnect the overflowing bag taped to Jameson’s back and replace it with an empty.

In between bags, the open catheter that stuck out from Jameson’s flesh leaked adrenaline onto the hands of the dwarves, who licked their fingers clean of Jameson’s fresh, hot “juice.”

“I’ll be right back,” Craig said to the dwarves, smiling ear-to-ear and flicking Chloe’s card. “I have a phone call to make.”

*****

The dry-storage warehouse was relatively clean and orderly and the temporary high from Kirk’s adrenaline had worn off, so the dwarves sat in sober silence and awaited Craig’s return.

“What are your names?” Jameson asked the dwarves, but they didn’t answer. “You don’t have nametags.”

The dwarves looked at each other, conflicted.

“What are your names?” Jameson asked, one last time.

“Chris,” said the dwarf with the split lip. “And he’s Matt.”

“Why don’t you have nametags?” Jameson asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Matt.

“You don’t have nametags. Everyone has nametags. Even Olga. So, why don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Chris, split lip raw, wet, and shining. “I never thought to ask.”

“Well, if you asked me,” offered Jameson, “I’d say Craig is trying to steal your identity, your individuality.”

“Craig wouldn’t do that,” said Matt, defensively.

“He’s like a father to us,” Chris finished Matt’s sentence.

Jameson, Chris, and Matt sat in an awkward silence.

Jameson looked over to Kirk and Chris and Matt blushed at his naked and disfigured corpse.

“Chris,” Jameson said to himself, “and Matt.”

It was one of the few times Chris and Matt heard their names spoken aloud.

“Matt,” said Jameson, “and Chris.”

The warehouse door swung open with a thunderous crash.

Craig entered pushing a wheelchair that cradled a grossly obese, elderly man wearing a plastic bib.

“What’s cooking?” said the fat man in a voice thick with phlegm.

“Mr. Jameson,” Craig announced, “allow me to introduce to you a man who needs no introduction, the founder and namesake of Gordy’s, Big Gordy.”

Big Gordy applauded his own name.

“And I believe you already know our other guests,” said Craig, steadily pushing Big Gordy closer to the center of the warehouse, “Olga and Miss Chloe Daniels!”

Madam Olga entered the warehouse carrying Chloe, hog-tied and gagged, over her thick shoulder.

Jameson wanted to cry, but held back.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” asked Craig, his voice insincere.

“Hello, Chloe,” Jameson said.

Madam Olga lowered Chloe, face-down, to the concrete floor.

“Smelling good,” Big Gordy said with a wide, toothless, smile. One of his eyes was glazed over with a thin, milky film, but the other was alive and blue. He pulled a spork from his shirt pocket, dipped it into the mixer, and raised to his mouth a heaping portion of room temperature Thousand Island dressing.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked, spitting it out, permitting most of the pink dressing to ooze down his many, rubbery, dimpled chins. “That’s not my sauce!” he proclaimed, throwing his spork at Craig. “What the fuck did you do to my sauce?”

“Take it easy,” Craig pleaded. “We haven’t finished yet. I know how much you like to be here for the final mixing, so we waited for you to get here before we added the juice. That’s why we have these two with us.” He gestured at Jameson and Chloe.

“Ooooh, she’s going in the sauce?” Big Gordy asked, seemingly pleased. “Have you completed her extraction, yet? Cause, if not, I sure wouldn’t mind watching.”

“As a matter of fact, we were just about to begin,” Craig said, squatting down next to Chloe.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Jameson screamed between his remaining teeth.

“What’s that?” asked Craig, petting Chloe.

“I said, ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’” Jameson repeated.

Upon Craig’s request, the dwarves, Chris and Matt, replaced Jameson’s bag with an empty one.

“He’s a juicy one, ain’t he?” said Big Gordy, his purple lips glistening.

Matt was about to dump Jameson’s bag of adrenaline into the mixer when Big Gordy stopped him.

“Little guy, give me that bag.” Big Gordy ordered.

Matt didn’t move.

“Do what he says!” Craig barked. “Give him the bag!”

Madam Olga eagerly watched, ready to pummel the snack-size fry-cook.

Matt gave the bag to Big Gordy, who took a long throaty drink, but Jameson’s juice did not affect Big Gordy the way Kirk’s had affected Chris and Matt.

Big Gordy finished the entire quart and belched.

“Garbage!” he said, throwing the flaccid bag into Matt’s face.

“What do you mean?” asked Craig, concern in his voice.

“Fucking garbage!” Big Gordy repeated. “Might as well be tap water. That’s the problem with some of these juicy ones. No flavor!”

For all intents and purposes, Jameson was worthless.

“Kill him,” Big Gordy said to Craig.

“You heard him,” Craig said to Chris and Matt. “Kill him!”

Chris and Matt looked at each other, but did not move.

“Kill him!” Craig repeated, yet Chris and Matt remained motionless while Chloe watched on, helpless and in horror.

Chloe caught Jameson’s eye and was surprised to see him smile at her and wink.

“I’m sorry,” Jameson mouthed.

Craig put a single bullet through his face; then turned his pistol on Chris and Matt, killing them both for their insubordination.

Chloe wept with her face on the concrete while Big Gordy dipped his hand into the sauce.

“It’s dirty!” Big Gordy complained, picking a chunk of skull from the mixer.

“Shit,” Craig said to Big Gordy, scratching his temple with the barrel of his gun, “good thing we have an extra batch in cold storage.”

“Well, whaddya wanna do with her?” Big Gordy asked with a greasy smile while Chloe’s tears began to form a shallow puddle. “Be a real shame to let her go to waste.”

Craig was momentarily silent in thought.

“Let me know when he’s done,” Craig said to Madame Olga. “And while you’re back here try to clean up the place.”

And, with that, Craig threw Madame Olga a mop and went back to work, leaving Chloe alone with Big Gordy.

Big Gordy climbed down from his wheelchair, sluggishly inched his way to Chloe, and lifted her shirt. He tore away the empty bag and pinched the catheter that peeked out from the small of her back. The fluid that seeped from the mouth of the plastic tube was thick as molasses.

“That’s the good stuff,” Big Gordy said to himself, as he began to drink his fill of Chloe’s juice.