Pop
Perish the voices in your head.
Richard wished he hadn’t read that article about Ed Gein, now Ed was all he could think about. Climbing into Mommy’s skin. He shivered and crossed himself. Richard’s mother, God rest her soul, had been memorialized with a tasteful white marble cross that Richard went and scrubbed clean quarterly. The thought of desecrating her, or any other woman’s grave made him physically uncomfortable. Richard had been less particular about his father. Pop had died two years after Mother. Richard hadn’t buried the old bastard with his wife and military honors, as had been requested. No, he’d had the stiff-backed asshole burnt to ashes and put in a coffee can.
It had been cheap coffee, too.
Richard had bought it at a convenience store on his way to the cremation and had dumped the coffee grounds in a trashcan. Then he’d come home and put Pop on the shelf in the basement. Pop hated it, he whispered all the time into Richard’s ear. Nothing would stop his caustic old mouth.
He hated when Richard called him Pop. He preferred that sharp, military Sir. One of those guys who hid behind control. Nothing can hurt you if you control everything. He’d controlled Richard with the back of his hand when insults didn’t work.
“What do you think about your final resting place, Pop, you like it?” Richard grinned at the coffee can, still sitting on a shelf five years after his death. A muffled whimper snapped Richard out of, as he called it, his trauma rerun.
“Mustn’t do that,” he muttered to himself and looked down at the stainless steel operating table he’d put in his basement. He took a deep, cleansing breath. The man strapped to the table made another strangled noise through the duct tape gag over his mouth. Richard pointed to the coffee can across the room, sitting dusty on the shelf.
“That’s my Pop. Hey, Pop, what do you think of this one? Nice huh, big and strong, like I never was. These abs, too.” Richard chef kissed toward the can, “Perfection. I bet you would have drooled over these abs, Pops. If only I hand’t burnt your eyes to a crisp!” Richard laughed as he turned to the table behind him and grabbed a bowl of water and a can of shaving cream.
“I wish I had remembered to ask you your name,” he said to the man on the table. “I’m usually very good about asking. Pop would have my hide for being so rude. Can’t ask now.” He shook the shaving cream can then squirted a little in his palm.
“Bet you’re wondering how you got here. How did that little shrimp of a man get me into his house, down to the basement, and up on this table all by himself? I used to get those questions a lot, then I started using the tape. No more questions. Got to say, it’s kind of nice working in quiet. Like when Pop would go overseas and mom and I could breathe for a few months. Those were always good times. I mean, of course, we had to assume he was coming back. Couldn’t let things go too far. But Mom would drink margaritas in the afternoons and I would read sci-fi novels on the sofa. It was peaceful.” Richard began to slather the top of the man’s feet with shaving cream. He squirmed and tried to pull his legs free from the restraints.
“You can’t get out.” Richard said, patting the man on the shin. “These restraints have been tried and tested, believe me. I’ve had some very strong men down here. No one quite perfect, but I keep trying. Troubleshoot and tweak! That’s my motto.” He picked up a straight razor. The man struggled and screamed through the tape. Richard smiled at him.