In a Rut

Clyde crossed to the bar, kicking various body parts out of his way. Popping a beer, he sighed. What's it all mean? This morning an abduction (I did lock the cage, didn't I?), this afternoon a run of the mill decapitation and torso prune. And tomorrow looked to be a lot like today. What's wrong with me? Can't I even change my MO occasionally?

Nibbling an errant eyeball, Clyde looked down at the bloody jigsaw pieces and wondered about dinner. He had some homemade chili that should still be good. The meat was definitely still fresh. But after that? Yet another evening of social media and internet trolling for new prospects. His filleting hand slapped his forehead. He had to go to the hardware store. Again. He needed more rope, zip ties, ice picks, butcher knives, etc. The list never ends. But does he get to claim his tools of the trade as business expenses like plumbers and business men? Most professions get a tax deduction for this. Him?? Nooooooooooo.

Clyde snapped his fingers. Where was that campus bulletin board posting he grabbed before torching that sorority last week? Seemed interesting. Something about accounting. He thought of the endless string of nubile young coeds waiting in his future. Facts and figures seem a welcome change from boobs, blood and guts. But could he really do it? Be stuck in an office alone slaving over tax forms all day? He really was such a people person, in so many ways. Animals, too, that's how he started out. Clyde respected life, and death, in all its forms.

Before he ate her, maybe he should have listened to Mother and become a doctor.