Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror Read Online Free

to manufacture stuff like ethanol, high-fructose corn syrup, fillers in things like toothpaste and varnish. The two guys who made the film had their hair tested and it was composed mostly of corn.
    Most Americans are mostly made of corn.
    I need to chop more.
    I wheel the trash over to my corner, so I won’t be in anybody’s way. Pull three more crates off of the stack and bring them to my area. I set up RPCs (reusable plastic containers): one for cut corn, one for shucked.
    Chop, chop, chop.
    I imagine Justus’s pasty hand lying in between the blades, imagine his manicured fingernails trembling at the ends of his pale fingers.
    I lower my guillotine and his hand falls into the trash.
    The doors to Produce swing open.
    Liam appears. He squeezes past a pallet loaded with crates of cabbages and broccoli, then disappears into the cooler. A minute later he rolls out a U-boat stacked with boxes of berries.
    He nods at the RPCs I’ve carefully arranged on the counters by my sinks.
    “More corn,” he says, surprising me with his effusive speech.
    “Corn is my life.”
    He shakes his head and leaves.
    We both work the late shift and most nights it’s the two of us and no one else. One time, as we both stood in the elevator waiting for the jaws to close, I mentioned it was like a giant mouth devouring endless crates of corn.
    He said, “A soul-sucking mouth devouring employees.”
    I’d never heard him speak so many words.
    Since then, I’ve felt we have a bond.
    I wonder if he’d help me move the body. Shoving dead weight into the compactor will require more muscle than I can muster on my own, plus Liam’s aversion to speech might prove to be an asset.
    I keep chopping.
    The music goes through a rotation: popular songs from the 1970s, ’80s, ’90s—hardly anything from the millennium we’ve been in for more than a dozen years. Now it’s disco, Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough,” as if Justus is inside my head, commanding me to chop more corn.
    Chop, chop, chop.
    I ponder how best to dispose of his body.
    After cutting two cases, it’s time to dump the trash—more than two cases of cob bits, and I can’t lift the bag. I roll the garbage can out of Produce, open the compactor’s door—trying not to breathe the stink—heave the bag into the pit.
    I double-bag the garbage can again.
    As I start chopping yet another crate of corn, the solution occurs to me: divide and conquer.
    No need to enlist help if I chop the body into pieces.
    I glance at the clock, wondering when Justus will return.
    Chop, chop, chop.
    Shuck, shuck, shuck.
    Wrap, wrap, wrap.
    I’ve chopped, shucked, wrapped, six crates of corn. Now I’m working on prepping the Salad Bar for tomorrow. The counter is lined with containers filled with sliced cucumbers, shredded carrots, artichoke hearts, chick peas, beets.
    I’m trimming broccoli.
    I last spotted Justus up front when I left the break room after lunch. Around here, they call it lunch even if it’s 6:00 PM .
    Wanting to avoid him, I veered into Housewares and circled through Dairy.
    My timing needs to be perfect.
    I intend to ambush Justus after I take down the Salad Bar.
    I’ll lure him down to my domain, my corner by the sinks where I chop and cut. When he has his back to me, I’ll whack him with the machete or stab him with a chef’s knife. I haven’t quite decided, but the knives are waiting by my cutting board where I’m working on the broccoli.
    When he’s dead, I’ll stash his body on the floor behind the trash can so he’s hidden. Then I’ll pull the salad cart in front of the trash can to act as a barrier. There’s a drain on the floor by the sinks, so cleanup should be fairly easy. The only snag I can imagine is Liam, but he’ll be upstairs stocking vegetables.
    Liam leaves at about 9:00. After that, the basement will be deserted—except for the guy in the meat locker, way down the hall. Most of the day crew will be gone, and the night stalkers