Sex and Murder Magazine

By Chris Reed

The knock at the front door startled Steve from his drunken slumber.

“You gonna get that?” his roommate, Mandy, yelled from the bathroom. “It's probably one of your loser friends!”

Steve hated Mandy. The only reason he let her stay was because she paid half the bills. But lately she wasn't even doing that, not since she got fired from the gas station three weeks ago for being rude to the customers.

Steve crawled slowly, gingerly out of his puke-stained bed with one hand held against his throbbing forehead. He sent his other hand to search the floor for his boxers, found them, and pulled them on. The clock on the nightstand said 10:20 a.m.

The knocking continued-three quick raps on the wood, followed by a ten second pause, then another three raps.

“Get the goddamn !” Mandy yelled.

Steve heard the blow dryer switch on. The noise made his head throb even worse, but it was like music to his ears compared to Mandy's mouth. He loathed her, and lived for the twenty minutes of peace and quiet he got once a day when she disappeared into the bathroom to do her hair.

Steve stumbled through the kitchen, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the door open. He was momentarily blinded by the bright morning sunlight, but when his eyes finally focused, he saw a woman standing there. She was an attractive woman in a black mini-skirt, a plain white blouse, and a burgundy waitress's smock. The name tag on the breast of her blouse said BRIDGET. Standing next to Bridget was a stocky, bald man in a black trench coat. He looked to be in his mid-to-late forties, and reminded Steve of a mafia hit man. He had the waitress by the wrist, his grip so tight that Steve could see the whites of his knuckles.

“Steve Pratt?” the man asked.

“Uh... yeah,” Steve said.

“I'm Benjamin Fisk, owner of Benny's Diner. May I come in?”

Steve had gone to Benny's with some friends the night before after club-hopping. But what was the owner doing at his door with a waitress in tow? Steve looked from Benny to the waitress, then back to Benny and wondered if he was dreaming. But the pounding in his head assured him he was not, and he put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

“What's this about?”

“A survey you took. Last night at the diner?”

Steve vaguely recalled jotting down some comments on a card, but he'd had a lot to drink and couldn't remember exactly what he'd written.

“Please,” Benny said, “this will only take a minute.”

“Sure,” Steve said, mainly to get out of the sunlight before it blinded him.

Benny smiled, said, “Thank you,” and then stepped through the door, dragging the waitress behind him.

Steve shut the door and said, “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“Thank you, no,” Benny said.

The waitress didn't answer.

“Nice place you have here,” Benny said, looking around.

“Look, what's this all about?”

“Last night you visited my establishment seeking a pleasurable dining experience. You were disappointed, and I'm here to rectify that.”

The waitress let out a whimper, and the restaurant owner silenced her with a loud, “!”

Steve stood frozen, unable to believe what he was seeing. Unable to fathom that this appalling situation was somehow his fault. Then the details of the previous night began to surface.
remembered the lime green survey card with the words TELL US HOW WE'RE DOING printed across the top. Beneath this was a series of questions: you pleased with your waitress? The waitress had forgotten to re-fill their sodas, but the diner was packed and she'd been running around like a maniac since the moment they'd sat down, waiting on half the tables in the place, which led Steve to believe the diner was short-handed. She was okay, Steve had written. you consider eating here again? Maybe.

“Now,” Benny said, reaching into his trench coat with his free hand and removing a pair of handcuffs, “what can I do to ensure you that the poor service you received last night will never be repeated? What would it take, Mr. Pratt, to make you come back and dine with us again? What can I do to regain your trust?”

“I don't-”

But before Steve could finish, Benny slapped one end of the handcuffs onto the waitress's wrist, yanked her forward, into Steve's kitchen, and clasped the other end around the oven handle. He reached into his trench coat and took out a set of brass knuckles.

“What are you doing?” Steve nearly shrieked.

“On your survey you stated that, despite your unpleasant experience, there was a chance you would return. I believe the exact quote was 'maybe.' Well, I'm here to show you how much your patronage means to us. I'm here to prove that we don't take customer complaints lightly, Mr. Pratt. I'm here to turn that 'maybe' into a 'definitely'.”

He slid the brass knuckles onto his thick fingers as Bridget the waitress began to sob, thick mascara tears oozing down her cheeks.

“Really!” Steve said. “This isn't necessary!”

“We pride ourselves on customer satisfaction, Mr. Pratt,” Benny said. “It's what separates us from the competition. You do want to be satisfied, don't you?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Of course you do.”

Steve watched in utter shock as Benny grabbed the waitress by the hair, yanked her head back, and drove his fist into her face. The sound was like a side of beef hitting the sidewalk, meaty and wet. He let go of her hair, and she crumbled to the floor, pulling the oven door open and sending pots and pans crashing down on top of her. She sobbed as she held her busted face in her hand. Her split nose gushed blood through her fingers and splattered on the white linoleum.

“Jesus!” Steve cried.

Benny held the brass knuckles out to Steve and said, “Go ahead, Mr. Pratt. Make her pay for ruining your dinner. Make her remember you the next time you come in.”

Steve backed away, unable to take his eyes off the injured woman.

“Beatings aren't your thing, huh?” Benny placed the knuckles onto the kitchen counter and reached into his coat again. When his hand returned, it was holding a long, silver knife. “Then how about this? We like to encourage scarring. It makes them remember. Reminds them every time they punch the clock of the type of service we expect at Benny's.”

As Steve watched the battered woman writhe on the floor, he wondered how far this would go. What other weapons did this psychopath have in that trench coat of his? An axe? A gun?

“If you're worried about legal ramifications,” Benny said, “I assure you there will be none. Our waitresses sign a consent form upon hiring. Granted, the wording is a bit... , but it's there nonetheless.” He thrust the knife at Steve. “Go on, take it.”

Steve remained still as his mind raced to form a plan. He'd hoped the sounds of the pots and pans hitting the floor would summon Mandy from the bathroom, but the hair dryer was still going, and if the past was any indication, she would be in there for at least another ten minutes. Time enough for someone to be killed out here.

Benny noticed Steve's apprehension and said, “Not into violence, huh? Well maybe there's another way Bridget here can make up for her poor performance last night.”

He knelt down and lifted the waitress's skirt. She was wearing a black thong underneath, and she yelped as Benny hooked his fingers into the top and yanked it down to her knees, exposing her smooth, hairless vagina.

“Would you look at that,” he said, admiring her crotch the way a new father might marvel at the sight of his first child. “Is that beautiful or what?”

Benny went to touch her, and the waitress instinctively closed her legs and brought her knees up to her chest. A flash of anger lit up Benny's face as he put his knife to the waitress's throat and said, “Open your fucking legs.”

She complied, her legs trembling as Benny slid a thick finger inside her, slowly pumping it in and out.

“Tight little thing,” he said. “I think she needs a little loosening up, don't you, Mr. Pratt?”

When Steve didn't answer, Benny said, “What's the matter, Mr. Pratt? You do want satisfaction, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Steve said finally, “I do want satisfaction. But I want it from the top.”

Benny's finger ceased its probing.

“What are you talking about?”

“You hired this woman,” Steve said, “so ultimately, her behavior is your responsibility, right?”

“What?” Benny asked, his smile dissolving.

“You heard me. It's your diner and I think you should be held accountable for what happened last night.”

A worried look washed over Benny's face as he considered Steve's words.

“Remember,” Steve said, “the customer's always right.”

Benny returned the knife to his trench coat and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Pratt?”

Steve's plan appeared to be working, but now he didn't know what to say. Ten minutes ago he was a hung-over college student lying in his own vomit. Now this man, this Benny Fisk, was at his complete mercy. Now he was God. But what kind of a god was he? An evil, vindictive deity? Or a gentle, forgiving one? Maybe a little of both, he thought.

“First,” Steve said, “I want you to remove those handcuffs.”

“But-”

“Take them off!”

Benny sighed, but did as he was told.

Steve reached over to the block of knives on the counter and removed a meat cleaver. He handed it to Benny and said, “Here. I want you to chop off your finger. The one you stuck inside the waitress.”

Benny took the cleaver, his eyes wide, mouth agape. “What-”

“You heard me. Chop it off.”

Benny obediently placed his left hand palm-down on the counter, and spread his fingers as wide as he could. Then he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes tight, and brought the cleaver down. The blade sliced through Benny's finger and bit into the wood counter top with a sharp ! Benny howled in pain as his severed digit rolled across the counter and tumbled into the sink.

Steve tossed him a dish towel, which he used to wrap his bleeding hand.

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Pratt?” he grunted, his face pale and sweaty.

“Yeah,” Steve said, “you can take this woman to the nearest hospital and get her some medical attention. Get yourself some, too.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Pratt,” Benny replied as he moved some dishes and fished his finger out of the sink.

He dropped the bloody digit into his coat pocket, and then with his good hand, helped the waitress to her feet.

Steve opened the door for them, and as he watched them hobble down the sidewalk, he said, “Oh, and Benny, one other thing.”

Benny turned around.

“Yes, Mr. Pratt?”

“I believe Bridget deserves a raise, don't you?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Of course.”

He turned to walk away, then stopped. “Does this mean you'll be dining with us again?”

“Sure,” Steve said, telling the crazy bastard what he wanted to hear so he would leave.

Benny smiled.

“Good,” he said, “we hope to see you soon. And remember, Fridays are all you can eat fish and chips.”

He tipped his hat with his good hand, then turned and led Bridget the waitress up the walk as Steve closed the door. He turned to find Mandy standing in the kitchen, staring at the mess on the floor. Drinking his last can of beer.

“What the hell happened in here?” she asked. “Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” Steve said.

As he watched the inconsiderate bitch sucking down his brew, he thought he'd give anything to reach out and slap the piss out of her. would give him satisfaction. But he knew he couldn't do that, not without going to jail... or could he?

“Hey,” he said, “are you putting applications in today?”

She took a slurp of beer, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and said, “Maybe, why?”

“Because I know a place that might be hiring.”















































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