Mangled Meat by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online

in its case beneath the bed. A quick peek showed him it was still inside—in her haste she obviously hadn’t bothered looking. His suitcase was another story, though; it had been upheaved onto the floor, its contents rifled. He frowned at his own shame when he saw that she’d carefully placed his magazines in strategic points about the room: NATAL ATTRACTION on the dresser, READY TO DROP in front of the bathroom, and BUNS IN THE OVEN propped neatly on the bed pillow.
    I’m such a loser...
    He righted the suitcase, then found something else she’d missed in her haste to get out: his backup Rolex. This one was a $75 knock-off, and little consolation for the genuine one she’d stolen. Heyton had to smile when he noticed the box of Godivas was now empty.
    What a night. He trounced back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. He put on the knock-off, noticing it was just past 3 a.m. The presentation wasn’t for another twelve hours, so he actually had plenty of time to shake this off and prepare.
    Only then did he realize how truly lucky he’d been. She’d only taken cash and the watch. If she’d taken the car, some very troubling questions would be asked, and if she’d taken the laptop, his presentation would be a bust.
    Maybe the Fates were trying to tell him something. Or maybe God was...
    He felt the back of his head for a cut or a bruise, but found none. She must’ve hit me but...how? Something flagged his eye on the carpet. He thought oddly of a condom packet but when he picked it up...
    SAMPLE DOSE - USE ONLY IF PRESCRIBED BY A PHYSICIAN. MANUFACTURED BY HOFFMAN-LAROCHE, INC. The bottom of the pack read: ROHYPNOL (FLUNITRAZEPAM) - DO NOT USE WITH ALCOHOL.
    So she hadn’t hit him after all. I got roofied by a pregnant prostitute! and then he smirked at his nearly empty glass of scotch. The perfect horse’s ass... Since he hadn’t really lost much, it was almost funny. Of course he’d heard of the notorious date-rape drug, something originally made for sleep disorders.
    Some date, he reflected.
    He shook his head now and actually laughed.
    The headache was throbbing away, replaced by embarrassment. Hookers killed johns sometimes, or sometimes their pimps followed them to the motels... Heyton knew that street thugs would make short work of him.
    I hope I learned my lesson tonight, he thought and went to the bathroom. But had he really learned anything?
    He faced himself again in the mirror. The Fates? Or God? Heyton didn’t know. Nevertheless, he prayed to one of them right now: I will never do this again. I SWEAR TO GOD....
    Even the pitiful prayer made him feel better. He splashed more water in his face, then figured he’d shower, leave, and check in early at the convention center, and—
    Get my shit together. I’m going to kick ass on this presentation, sell the IAP system to Florida, and be a decent person from now on...
    Best of all, he knew he wasn’t lying to himself.
    Then he turned and collapsed.
    He would’ve screamed full-force but all that his throat would permit was a pathetic gasp. He’d turned to urinate but upon looking down...
    It was not a plastic baby doll festooned by spaghetti sauce that sat in the toilet, yet that first horrific glance seemed surreal. It’s fake, it’s fake! Heyton’s thoughts tried to convince him. The prostitute had left it as a macabre joke.
    Then the “doll” issued a death-rattle, like feeble castanets.
    Heyton crawled as far into the corner as he could, paralyzed. That split-second glance froze in his mind’s eye. No, it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a doll.
    It looked smaller than his objectivity would’ve imagined—but of course, it was premature. His teeth chattered when he noticed a bloodied pen on the floor, too—one of his, with his company’s name on it, that she’d pilfered from his suitcase.
    He shuddered in the corner for a half-hour, mute and insensible. Rational thought eluded him, yet through the consternation raging in his head, he knew one