Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror by Zané Sachs Read Free Book Online

feels like a giant hard-on.
    Makes me think of Ranger.
    I glance at the stalls. Chances are Terri the Terrible will come in here to inspect my work, so I have to clean the toilets. I pull my phone out of my pocket (we’re not supposed to carry phones, but everybody does), check the time, and realize I’d better hit the Men’s Room if I want to hook-up with Ranger.
    Thinking about his ass makes me cream.
    I fill out the chart taped to the door of the Women’s bathroom. Time: 8PM. Cleaning: visual, light, or deep. (I choose deep.) Initials. Hugging the spray bottle and box of paper towels, I head to the Men’s Room, anticipation causing pussy juice to trickle down my thighs.
    I knock, and then call out, “Anybody in there?”
    No answer, so I push the door open.
    A guy stands at the urinal, shaking himself.
    “Be right out,” he says.
    I watch as he zips his fly.
    Bypassing the sink, he leaves.
    Do men ever wash their hands?
    I set the Cleaning/Wet Floors sign outside the door. To pass the time while I wait for Ranger, I spray down the counter, glance into the stalls. One’s not too bad, but the other looks like a ticker tape parade marched through it: streamers of shitty toilet paper trampled on the floor. I’ll leave that mess for the porter.
    I glance at my phone, checking the time.
    Ranger should be here by now. Dumping chickens shouldn’t take twenty minutes. I go out to the cleaning cart to get the mop and pail of water, glance toward the check stands.
    No sign of him, so I text: Wair r u?!?
    I watch my phone for a full minute.
    No response. So, I call him.
    Finally, he picks up.
    “What? I’m working.”
    “Are you coming?”
    “Later.”
    “Hahaha.”
    What does later mean? Before I have a chance to ask, he hangs up.
    If he’s not coming, I’ll come by myself.
    I grab the mop and dunk it into the pail, splashing water on my sneakers. The Men’s Room floor is covered with yellow-brown foot prints. I mop around the toilets, avoiding strands of paper, and back my way out of the door.
    I had plans.
    I hate it when someone screws up my plans.
    The dent in my female pride deepens into a chasm—a dark abyss churning with rage.
    I bend over the pail and twist the mop, imagining it’s Ranger’s neck, imagining it’s every man who’s ever jerked me around. The corncob in my pocket jabs me, and wet heat rushes through my body as I formulate a new and better plan. The thought of it makes my slit gush.
    Forget the Men’s Room. I need privacy.
    I run back to the door marked Women, peeling off my rubber gloves. All the stalls are empty. Good. I duck into the first one, secure the lock. Bending over the pail meant for discarded tampons, I quickly shuck the cob of corn, dig my fingers into the tub of margarine and butter up. I’m dripping with anticipation. The cob slides right in.
    Who doesn’t love creamed corn?

    I get off at 9 PM (no pun intended). Ranger gets off at 10. (I mean that literally .)
    Before I clock out, I hit the Deli again. Ranger’s wiping down displays. Admiring his butt, I watch him bend over the glass. After a few moments he notices me.
    “Sorry, Sadie. I couldn’t break away.”
    “Couldn’t or wouldn’t, Richard ?” I call him by his real name to let him know I’m pissed.
    “Don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you.”
    Yes, you will.
    “Okay, Dick. Meet me at the river when you’re done. By the picnic tables.” It’s not a question, not even an invitation. It’s a command.
    He swipes the glass before saying, “Sure.”
    Softening my tone, I say, “We’ll have fun. I’ll bring vodka.” And then I flash a smile.
    “Okay. See you in about an hour.”
    His shoulders drop about three inches as he relaxes.
    My plan is falling into place, only a few more details I need to take care of.
    I cruise past the check stands. It’s all self-checkout at this hour, so they don’t need baggers, I mean, Courtesy Clerks. I have plenty of other duties to occupy my time: emptying