A Black Friday
Frain always bragged about grilling the Thanksgiving turkey, so I let him. It’s great irony that he had a hand in his own death. Well, a leg in this case.
Thanksgiving is dreadful. What’s new?
Or maybe it’s just that I’m excited about the weekend following Thanksgiving. I’ve turned the freezer down. Or is it up? Whatever colder is, that’s what I turned it. Freeze the turkey leg.
He drinks all day Friday, celebrating his success that Thanksgiving went well. Whatever. Passes out on the sofa. I pull the turkey leg from the freezer. Solid as a hockey puck.
I’ve studied the exact spot to hit him. At the library, not on my own computer. I’m not stupid. As he snores – God, I won’t miss that! – I wind up and bang the drumstick into his spleen. Twice for good measure. The snoring stops. So does his pulse.
When the investigator pays me a visit on the second day, I’m eating. I offer him some of my turkey. Together, we devour the murder weapon.