Flirty Perv Faces the Blade

Why do knives and perversity suit each other so well? It seems that they are often found together.

Both can be found at the grocery store, as well.

Waiting at the deli counter and chatting about the butcher’s kitties, my eyes wandered over the cooler shelves to find my favorite brand of pickles when the view was blocked. It was a person of indeterminable sex. Dirty looking, with a snotty upper lip and badly splotched glasses, the form wore a cap over amorphous mid-length hair and wore an dirty army fatigue jacket. Male or female, whatever, there was something wrong with the picture, so I looked away.

After a little more about the kitties and with cheese in hand, it was time to shop.

In the first aisle, I saw the creepy person from the pickle shelf. For sake of the tale, we shall presume it is a male. Walking past him, I grabbed a few cans of tuna from the shelf, then went around the corner to the next aisle. There he was again!

A foot and a half taller, in good shape and able to kick ass, the person did not worry me so much as annoy the hell out of me. There were options…like confront the bastard but that seemed too easy. Since all there was to assume is that this was some kind of pervert or an otherwise plain crazy person, why not squeeze a few laughs out of it?

Letting him trail me, it sort of startled me when he stood next to me, maybe two feet away, while I surveyed the crackers. Something had to be done soon. Something was going to happen.

While working down the aisles, one end to the other, he was fully ignored. No affirmation was given, not even eye contact since my shades, Rayban Wayfarers, had prescription strength lenses and only came off at home.

There was no question that he could be effortlessly hurt. It struck me that he was pretty brave for a demented fuck and wonder if he had worked up to it by practicing on women or kids, most likely kids.

We came to some coolers holding milk and juice. A child sat alone in a shopping cart, unattended…a boy, maybe two years old or a little younger. “Why me?”, he wailed, “Why me?” and I had to just laugh at the cosmic possibilities of his question and wondered what pivotal moment in his infant life had led him to such an existential query. He looked so serious and plaintive.

Why had he asked and why was some pervert following me through a supermarket during broad daylight? These and many other questions burned in my mind as the aisle containing housewares lay before me.

Strolling down the shelves with my shadow, I stopped fast to see if he would walk into me but he stopped just short of bumping me. The answer lay in front of me in the assortment of kitchen gadgets hanging from racks at the end of the row. There were sponges, pasta forks, soap dishes, bottle openers, plugs for sink drains, and knives, two rows of knives in assorted sized and types of blades.

As the shiny blades gleamed before me, the gurgling breath of the fetid figure following was audible. He was, again, two feet to my right. Psychologists contend that most people tend to react badly when the eighteen inch, personal barrier of space is violated. They may be right.

The largest knife, with the biggest and longest blade was a wooden-handled butcher’s job with a fourteen inch blade. The knives were lashed to colorful lengths of laminated cardboard, which bore information like what type of knife, the brand name and place of manufacture, as well as holding the bar code for scanning the price. Two bands of plastic, one halfway up the handle and the other halfway down from the tip of the blade, held the cardboard fast to the knive and gave it something to hang from.

My right hand found the handle and pulled the utensil down from the shelf.

My left hand grasped the edge of the cardboard near the tip of the blade and bent it back to where the plastic lash held it, exposing about six inches of shining steel, bright under the fluorescent lights of the store.

Now was the time.

Turning quickly to the figure, I held up the point of the knife and looked over the top of my shades, so that the blade was between my eyes and the eyes behind the filthy glasses. Smiling as wide as I could manage, showing every tooth possible and laughing, I stepped toward him, chortling maniacally.

As he ran down the aisle, I pursed my lips and went ‘tsk, tsk’ to myself and returned the tool to it’s place on the rack. “Sore loser,” the voice in my head said.

I thought, “I wonder if the pineapple cottage cheese is on sale?”



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Filed under essays, fiction, Uncategorized

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