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

won’t arrive till eleven. Night stalkers live on coffee and energy drinks. They stock the shelves while the store is closed and leave at dawn. The point is, I’ll have about two hours to myself down in the basement. After Liam’s gone, I plan to fillet Justus (if not fillets, pieces: legs, thighs, wings), then I’ll deposit the parts into trash bags (doubled to avoid leakage), and toss the bags into the compactor.
    When I’m done I’ll mop as usual, spray the concrete with the hose, use a squeegee to drive bloody water into the drain—
    The Produce doors part, revealing Liam. Head bowed, he rolls a cart of packaged lettuce, spinach, various herbs, past my station, maneuvering between a U-boat stacked with carrots and a ginormous pallet of corn. He enters the cooler.
    I place the cut broccoli into a container, secure the lid. My hands tremble as I peel tape from a roll. Shake harder as I slap the tape onto the lid of the container. All this thinking makes me nervous. Using a black marker, I label the tape with today’s date, so I’ll know when to pull the broccoli from the Salad Bar.
    I figure, no one will miss Justus till he’s due back from his camping trip. Even then, maybe they’ll think he got caught in a wildfire—they’re spreading fast.
    What about his bicycle?
    Someone is bound to notice it hanging out in the meat locker.
    I’ll ride it home.
    The more I think, the more my hands shake.
    My plot has holes.
    A rattling noise makes me jump.
    I turn toward the sound, knocking the container of beets off the counter. Crimson juice splatters the white wall, spills red onto the floor. I watch it ooze into the drain.
    Liam rolls a U-boat out of the cooler, its wheels clacking on the concrete floor as he heads out of Produce.
    I lean against the counter, so I’ll remain upright, press my hands into the stainless steel to stop them from shaking. I stare at the garbage disposal, wondering if the motor is powerful enough to grind bones. Swallow a mouthful of puke.
    The clock says 7:00, time for me to surface from the basement.
    I step over crimson stains, avoiding the remains of beets, and tell myself I’ll clean the mess after I take down the Salad Bar.
    Or later … when I clean the rest.
    Leaning into my cart, I steady my wobbly legs. I roll the cart out of Produce and down the hall to the freight elevator, push the button again and again and again.

    Taking down the Salad Bar is meticulous work, requires patience. Going too fast may lead to disaster—kidney beans lost in the tomatoes, sunflowers seeds hiding in the shredded cheese. First thing, I slip on fresh rubber gloves. Leftover lettuce and spinach is thrown away, so I stack those containers on top of each other. Then I set the tongs and serving spoons into the empty lettuce bin. The collection of salad dressings often looks like a child got hold of finger paints. Fridays are the messiest, due to happy hour, and this weekend is a holiday, so it’s worse than usual. Using gobs of paper towels, I wipe away white, pink, yellow, and red oily smears.
    From the corner of my eye, I notice Justus. He’s hovering around Liam, his head wagging as he points at the fruit display.
    Liam continues stacking oranges while receiving the lecture.
    I focus on the Salad Bar, examining each item as I remove the containers to determine if something needs to be replenished or tossed. I have my favorites, like purple cabbage and green peas—the colors are so vibrant. And there are items I dislike. In my opinion, baby corn and pepperoni have no business on a salad.
    A man marches over, glares at the half-empty Salad Bar, and then glares at the loaded cart.
    “No more salad?”
    “Sorry. We take it down at seven.”
    He points at my chest.
    I look down at the red letters on my yellow shirt. A splatter of beet juice drips from the S . The rest of SERVE is covered by my apron.
    The man barks, “Your job is to serve me.”
    Broiled on a bed of lettuce?
    The man stomps over to