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

trash, restocking bags, cleaning check stands, returning shop-backs to their proper place, and there’s always conditioning the shelves.
    Wendy is working self-checkout. And the security guy is standing by, checking her out. Everybody knows (except the security guy, apparently) that Wendy’s hung-up on Justus, so she’s all upset about the accident. (Overly dramatic, if you ask me.) Anyway, I doubt the security guy will score anytime soon. Earlier today, I asked Wendy if she knew when they were holding Justus’s funeral. She shouts, “That isn’t funny, Sadie!” Then she broke into tears, abandoned her check stand, and stomped into the break room—like I’d said something weird. Wendy’s been in the break room a lot today, sobbing on the couch; that’s why mascara is running off her chin. But the security guy is oblivious, sniffing around her like a dog, hoping to find fertile ground where he can plant his boner.
    Personally, I’m glad the dude is occupied, so he won’t notice me. But, even if he’s busy monitoring Wendy rather than the store, the cameras keep recording. I’m pretty sure I’m safe. He won’t watch hours of nothing happening. A missing ear of corn will never be detected, and swiping a tub of fake butter is hardly a felony, but lifting a bottle of sleep aids might be noted, and in hindsight a missing bottle could be used as evidence. Receipts can be traced; I learned that from CSI .
    Walking the aisles of Pharmacy, I condition bottles and boxes of various over-the-counter drugs, so I look like I’m doing my job. Conditioning involves pulling items forward, at least two deep, and lining them up for a waterfall effect. I zero-in on a bottle of Unisom Maximum Strength SleepGels. Turning my back to the camera, I slip the box into my apron.
    Check my phone.
    Time to meet Ranger.
    Terri stands behind the Customer Service counter typing entries into a computer.
    “I’m outta here,” I say as I punch my code into the time clock.
    Without looking up, she says, “You got the bathrooms?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And the trash?”
    “Uh-huh,” I lie. I forgot about the trash.
    After clocking out, I pick up a jar of cranberry juice. It takes me a while to find it, since they moved juice from Aisle 6 to Aisle 4, plus I got sidetracked because several people asked me where to find spaghetti sauce, pickles, croutons. I choose the store brand juice, so my purchase qualifies for the employee discount, and pay for it at self-checkout. I always use self-checkout. Interacting with human checkers requires more effort.
    Then I head to the break room, glad to find it empty. I close the door. ME TV is on the new flat screen TV we got as part of the remodel. An ancient episode of I Dream of Jeannie competes with Elvis Costello singing “Allison” over the intercom. I open the jar of juice, take a few gulps, then dump about half of it into the sink. I’ll spring for vodka at the liquor store. It’s an investment, but Ranger will be worth it. I sit at the table where we eat lunch, push someone’s forgotten container of chicken bones out of the way, and notice the latest Gazette. My hand shakes when I pick up the newspaper. A photograph of Justus stares at me from the front page. If I actually read the article and learn the details of his death, chances are I’ll go into convulsions. I set the paper at the far end of the table, cover his face with chicken bones.
    My hands tremble so badly, I have trouble opening the Unisom. I dump about a dozen SleepGels onto the table. Using the box cutter they gave me when I worked in Produce, I slice into a pill and nearly cut myself. I breathe deeply, forcing myself to focus on the task, and squeeze the gelcap’s contents into the jar of cranberry juice. I repeat the process fourteen times.
    The door opens, and I quickly slip the bottle of Unisom into my apron.
    “I thought you left a while ago,” Terri says.
    “Just collecting my stuff.” I point to the half-empty jar of