Part 18 (2/2)
”What if he looks up and sees you?”
”I'll scream like a girl and faint.”
”Good plan.”
”Thanks.”
We just hung out in his room for a while, chatting about subjects that were awe-inspiring in their lack of substantive content, until finally- ”Oooh, he's doing something,” said Roger, adjusting the telescope. ”He's walking around, yep, he's got the butcher knife...take a look at this!”
I peeked through the telescope. Roger's neighbor, a slightly overweight, balding guy who looked about forty, was indeed pacing around his room, waving a butcher knife.
”Holy cow,” I said. ”He's gone nutzo.”
”I told you. Can you figure out what he's saying?”
I stared at his mouth, but there was no way to translate. He was speaking very quickly and animatedly, poking the air with his butcher knife for emphasis.
”He's saying, 'Roger...Roger...the time of reckoning is at hand...sweet, delicious Roger, I've killed for our love and will do so again...'”
”Shut up,” said Roger, laughing.
”He's got your picture tattooed on his chest.”
”Seriously, what's he saying?”
”I can't tell. Something funky, I bet.”
”So is that weird or what?
”Pretty weird. But it doesn't mean he's a killer. He could just be a torturer.”
”We should go over and get a closer look.”
”Yeah, right. What if we get caught?”
”Death. Dismemberment. Extra ch.o.r.es.”
I peeked through the telescope again. ”We'd better not. There's definitely something wrong with this guy. At least there's no blood on the knife. That's a good sign.”
”Let's go over.”
”No.”
”Why not?”
”Because I don't do dumb things that will get me in trouble.”
”Oh, come on. Don't be such a wuss.”
”I'm not a wuss.”
”You're a large, large wuss.”
”I'm not sneaking over there,” I said. ”Especially not with you. I barely even know you. You could have bodies stacked in your closet. Here, open your closet so I can make sure there aren't any bodies stacked in there.”
”Fine, whatever,” said Roger with a sigh. ”I didn't want to go over there anyway. I hope he gets the part.”
”What part?”
”The play part.”
”What play part?”
”He's practicing for a play audition. Something about a serial killer who paces around with a butcher knife.”
I gaped at him.
Roger grinned.
”You dork!” I said. ”You made this all up?”
”No, I was absolutely serious when I said that he was practicing for a play audition.”
I looked around for something to throw at him, preferably something with jagged edges and an internal combustion engine, but there wasn't anything. I settled for calling him a dork again.
”Don't blame me,” said Roger. ”It's your sorry excuse for a town that forced me to resort to this kind of entertainment.”
”There's nothing wrong with Chamber.”
”Where else have you lived?”
”Chamber. But there's nothing wrong with it.”
”Well, then what should we do?”
”We could watch some more TV.”
Two hours of quality television later, Roger chugged the last of his can of soda and let out a belch that freaked out his cat. ”I was lying about him auditioning for a play,” he said.
”No, you weren't.”
”Okay.”
I finished off my own drink and emitted my own, less-effective belch. ”You know what would be funny? If somebody thought he really was a psycho killer and called the cops.”
”Wanna do it?”
<script>