The Problem with Jerry

"Okay, so maybe a little overkill with the meat cleaver," I mutter, nudging the body with my foot. Correction: the *formerly* very-much-alive Jerry Tucker, now sporting an uncanny resemblance to a slasher-flick victim.

"Technically, though," I tell his wide, permanently horrified eyes, "you brought this on yourself. The HOA meeting? The barking dog complaints? And don’t even get me started on the 'no holiday decorations past January 3rd' rule." I squat down, checking for a pulse purely out of morbid curiosity. Spoiler alert: there isn’t one.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. There are better ways to solve disputes with your neighbor than hacking them into pieces. I get it. People are big on "talking things out" and "nonviolent communication." Jerry liked that kind of crap too. Guess it didn’t work out for him, huh?

“Christ,” I groan, wiping a speck of blood off my cheek. "You’ve gone and ruined my favorite sweatpants. These are the soft ones. My Netflix pants."

I gaze down at the carnage—red everywhere, like Jackson Pollock got wasted and started finger painting with arterial spray. It’s not good. But we’re here now. No going back. So, what’s the plan? How do I Houdini my way out of this one?

My phone buzzes.

**Mom:** Don’t forget to pick up milk.

Milk? Seriously? My hands are practically shaking, and she’s worried about 2% versus almond?

"Priorities, Mom," I whisper, tossing the phone onto the couch. Focus. First things first: get rid of Jerry. Second: get the hell out of this cul-de-sac before the neighbors start asking questions.

A quick survey of my options:

1. **Dump him in the backyard.** Pro: convenient, and honestly, his lawn is full of crap anyway. Con: I’d have to dig, and I’m not really built for manual labor. Plus, there’s the whole *pesky forensic evidence* thing.

2. **Trunk-and-drive combo.** Classic, right? Pro: mobile Jerry! Con: I drive a Toyota Prius, and I’m not entirely sure he’ll fit. Definitely not with that leg angle. Damn. Should’ve stuck with the hacksaw.

3. **Pretend he’s still alive.** Stuff some sunglasses on him, Weekend at Bernie’s style. Just wheel him out every once in a while. “Oh Jerry? Nah, he’s fine. Just a bit stiff.” Though his Home Depot loyalty card sticking out of his severed hand might raise eyebrows.

Ugh. Why don’t they cover *this* in high school? Algebra? Useless. I need "Creative Problem Solving for Spontaneous Manslaughter."

“Get it together,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. There’s only one person I can call in a situation like this. I pull up ‘Fixer Felix’ in my contacts. Felix is the type of guy who looks like he’s committed a felony just by walking into a room. The dude smells like WD-40 and bourbon, and I’m convinced he’s been involved in several arson-related insurance claims.

After three rings, Felix picks up.

“Who’d you kill?”

“Jerry Tucker.”

Pause. A long sigh on his end. “Ah, *that* guy.”

“You know him?”

“Everyone hates Jerry Tucker. You probably did the whole town a favor.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit, glancing at Jerry’s lifeless face, still frozen in judgment. “So… can you help me or not?”

“I’m on my way,” Felix says. “Tell me you didn’t make a mess.”

“Define ‘mess.’”

“Jesus Christ. I’ll bring the bleach.”

I hang up and sigh, walking over to the window. Jerry’s stupid garden gnomes stare back at me from his lawn, looking both judgmental and smug. I want to punt one, but that seems like a little much, even for me right now.

Thirty minutes later, Felix shows up in a van that looks like it’s seen the wrong side of a meth lab explosion. He steps out, cigarette dangling from his mouth, wearing a t-shirt that says "I’m here to help… not to care."

"Nice touch with the cleaver," he says, assessing the scene like he’s judging the finer points of abstract art. "Real personal."

"You think?"

"Absolutely. If you’re gonna kill someone, you wanna send a message. And yours says, ‘don’t piss me off about recycling bins.’"

Felix pulls out a roll of heavy-duty trash bags and starts whistling like he’s taking out the garbage after a barbeque. I mean, technically he *is,* but still. A little respect for the dead, Felix.

"So," Felix says, cutting into the silence as he wraps Jerry’s body with the kind of finesse you’d expect from a butcher with a dark secret, "you thought about your alibi yet?"

"Not really."

He pauses, glances at me, then smirks. "Amateur."

I scratch my head. "I just figured—"

"No, no." Felix holds up a hand. "You don’t *figure* in these situations, okay? You *plan.* Think chess, not checkers. And definitely don’t think Monopoly, because I’m pretty sure you’ve already lost that game."

Felix finishes his handiwork and hoists Jerry’s bundled body over his shoulder like Santa’s sleaziest cousin. "All right, we’re good. Where to?"

I stare at him, blinking. "You mean you don’t have a plan?"

Felix grins. "You’ve got a Prius, right? I’ve always wanted to see if I could fit a body in one of those."

I blink again, then shrug. At this point, nothing feels particularly absurd anymore. Not even the idea of driving through town with a dead HOA president in my trunk. Besides, it’s LA. This might not even make the top ten weirdest things happening tonight.