Snacks From the Butler's Pantry

I was at another dream dinner party last night. I was explaining the following story to my mother. Don't ever invite me to your dream parties. My conversation skills could definitely use a little polishing.

_________



He hated his job. He hated being told what to do. He hated following a schedule. He hated the driving most of all. Stupid Fucking traffic. He downshifted, and slowed for the line of cars. His eyes automatically darted to his rear view mirror to be sure the car behind him was doing the same. He often felt like he was just on autopilot in his body. Like he relied on the programming of muscle memory and habits to run most of his life. He felt this especially bad when he drove.

"Messenger 2217, please report on ETA." His radio chimed.

Stupid fucking radio. He thought, as he ignored it.. As he pulled up to the house, he had a feeling that today was going to be one of those days.

He checked his reflection in the car window, and needlessly straightened his tie. Sometimes he felt like he didn't even recognize himself anymore. Could he even remember when his hair started to turn gray? Could he even remember what he ate for breakfast this morning? He made his way across the lawn, briefcase in hand. Stupid fucking briefcase.

He rang the bell, and was greeted by a young woman with a phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear.

"Is your father home?" He asked, knowing that he wasn't
"No, he's not." She answered.
"That's fine," He said. "I have a message for him, but he doesn't have to be here to receive it. In fact, It's probably better that he isn't home."

He swung his briefcase up to hit her hard in the face. The force knocked the phone from her hand, and sent her sprawling. A voice continued to squawk through the phone. That would be the sister. He thought to himself. Perfect. She's next.

He grabbed the girl roughly by the hair, and dragged her into the house.

...Her soft hair between your fingers - The memory intruded on his mind - Her smooth naked skin pressed against yours...

"Messenger 2217!"

He shook off the memories, and threw the girl into the bathroom. She tangled in the shower curtain, and fell to the hard floor, cracking her head on the white tile. "Your father has made enemies with the wrong people. Bad for him. Worse for you. You're the message." He set his briefcase on the counter, and opened the lid to reveal rows of sharp and gruesome instruments.

The girl tried to lift herself up from the blood smeared tile, groggy and dazed. She pulled weakly at the tangled curtain, as blood trickled from her broken scalp and into her blond hair.

...Her soft blond hair... Matted with blood. Broken glass scattered across the asphalt...

He braced himself against the counter as the long lost memories burned through his mind.

...He struggled to untangle her lifeless body from her seat belt, but couldn't reach her. The steering column smashed painfully into his shattered ribs...

"...2217!"

His vision blurred, and he stumbled against the counter, knocking his briefcase to the floor. The tools clattered across the tiles, and he reached for the scalpel. "I can't.." He started. "You need to get out of here. You need to run, now!" He started to cut the dazed girl free from the tangled curtain. The scalpel easily slid through the thin plastic.

...The scalpel slid painfully through his flesh. It traced a long trail across his abdomen, and he felt every inch of the cut. Voices discussed him in the background. "We use a paralytic, not an anesthetic. The unbearable pain causes their minds to wipe the traumatic experience from their memory..."

A commotion in the front room startled him back to reality. "Help me!" The girl screamed as her sister burst into the bathroom. The sister grabbed the nearest weapon, a long razor sharp surgical saw, and swung it wildly at the man. He tried to defend himself from the blows without fighting back. The saw bit painfully into his forearms, tearing off long strips of skin and gore.

The attack stopped as suddenly as it began, and he looked up at the sister to see a paralyzed look of terror and confusion on her face. He looked down at the bloody torn mess that used to be his arms, and felt the same confusion. Below the skin, where there should be bone, was the glint of smooth metal. He ripped the ragged strips of flesh from his forearms and hands, revealing the shiny silver pistons and gears beneath. He laughed in bewilderment, and stood in front of the mirror. He tore his clothes from his body with his metal claw like fingers. They bit painfully into the skin of his chest, and ripped the flesh from his metal ribcage beneath.

"...malfunction in Messenger 2217!"

Came the voice in his head. He pushed it away, returning to the flood of lost memories now returning to him.

"...Her torn and crumpled photo, clutched weakly in his hand. The men's voices, "We leave them with the most painful memories to make them feel like they are still human. Their humanity makes them more complacent and easy to control..."

"Reprogramming team dispatched for Messenger 2217!"

He tore his left ear from his head to make the transmissions stop, and threw it into the sink. The girls huddled together on the bathroom floor, now more terrified than ever. He grabbed the small battery powered drill from his briefcase, and stood close to the mirror. He pressed it to the side of his head, and pulled the trigger in a spray of sparks and gore. He looked down at his hands and arms. The skin was already regenerating, covering the steel in a mockery of humanity.

Sirens wailed from just outside the house. He turned to the sister, "You called the police? Good. I'm going to take their guns. I'm going to need all of them."