The Pedestal

Harvey Butaleon Degree Sr.



Outside the door of apartment 403, Blade stood listening for any sound coming from within. There was none. She retrieved from her camouflaged jacket pocket her pick-keys and jimmied the flimsy lock.

This room was more neatly kept than the one she'd passed on the second floor but it too would never win the Good Housekeeping Award. Old newspapers and other household garbage littered the linoleum floor along with black oily clothes that was his trade. There was a big faded blue sofa in the center of the room dating back to the sixties with stuffing showing in the seat and armrest. The blue was faded so badly it looked almost green. In front of the sofa was a red milk crate overturned to double as a television stand. On top of the crate were empty tobacco cans and a small thirteen-inch TV set. There was a white plastic and metal kitchen table with two matching chairs in what served as the kitchen area. Beyond that was a pile of dirty dishes stacked high on the cabinet top and in the sink. Empty beer cans and wine bottles on the floor were as numerous as the cockroaches on the walls.

Blade tiptoed silently across the cluttered room and softly opened the one door that revealed a bedroom. In the early morning light flirting through the open window she made out the curved form of a man lying on the cover less bed. Tacked on the bedroom walls were centerfolds from various girlie magazines. Some were as recent as two months ago, others were from years ago judging from the hairdos.

Blade walked across the room calmly and quietly, she didn't want to disturb anything. She wanted the room to be found just like it was, with the exception of one minor decorative change. A bloody body would be added to the decor of the bedroom. She moved closer to him keeping check on the measure of his snoring to alert her of his waking up and catching her out of position. Her athletic shoes scarcely created a sound on the soiled linoleum rug. Blade didn't want to lose her edge. She well understood she was a small woman so her best method of attack was to stab him enough times that he wouldn't be able to fight back.

The nightstand had one of three drawers missing and the remaining two were cocked in at an off angle, making them unable to close. A jade colored porcelain lamp without a shade sat on top. The naked bulb was black in the middle and appeared to be blown. Blade stood beside the bed for twenty minutes looking down on him while he slept. She'd let him enjoy the last little bit of time of his purposeless life.

When Blade was ready she woke him.

"Wake up Pops, it's story time," Blade announced gleefully. She thrust the switchblade deep into his right foot and yanked it downward. The skin folded back from the blade spraying crimson colored blood unto the sweat soaked sheet.

The reaction was immediate and expected. When the man jerked his knee upwards, his right hand responded automatically going down to the injured foot. It was a reflex Blade was prepared for. Quick as a flash she lashed out and sliced him across the back of his extended right hand. Now he had two critical lacerations to be troubled about. This was just the beginning of his marked end. If he were a smart man he wouldn't waste time worrying about either of these flesh wounds, but the last surgical incision she would perform, which would be encircled around his neck.

The old man recoiled surprised, puzzled, and then angry. "What the hell? Who the fuck are you? What the hell do you want?" His eyes became big and round. If he had any signs of a hangover they were cleared away now.

"Questions, questions, always questions, hey Pops. Well I ain't Alice, and this here place for sure ain't Wonderland. Let's see, I ain't Dorothy, so this can't be Oz either. Okay, okay, I got it. I must be Blade. This here is my cousin, Straight Razor." She held up the switchblade to where he could get a good look at it. "And you my loudmouth, bullshit talking homey is my breakfast. Either you start talking or I'm going to slice you up like light bread and spread your blood like strawberry jelly."

"Talk about what? I don't know what you want," he said. He snarled his lips. Recognition like a low burning ember glowed in his wary eyes. "Hey I know you. You're that crazy loony-toon bitch that shot up Truckers store."

"Your memory ain't as bad as you thought old man." Now tell me what you told writer boy last night and tell me word for word."

"I ain't telling shit to you bitch."

Blade lashed out with the switchblade across his thigh. The gash was long and deep.

He screamed.

The old black man on the bed grimaced as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. Blood flowed from his hand, thigh and foot soaking the bed sheet from dingy gray to bright cherry red.

"Wrong answer." A menacing smile played on the corner of her lips.

"You crazy? Get out of here." The old man waved his arm and therefore waved his blood across the floor. Alcoholic sweat oozed from the pores of his stinking body. He made a feeble lunge at her. "I'm going to kill you damnit."

"Wrong again Pops." She speared the tip of the switchblade into his outreached palm.

Not once did the old black man on the bed take his eyes off of the switchblade. She tossed it skillfully from hand to hand and his scared angry eyes darted back and forth with it. The old man conceded to the fact that he was dead. Yet he still tried to drag away valuable minutes as if they were priceless and precious diamonds. "Just don't kill me, just please don't kill me."