MicroHorror

“So, I was making the rounds, asking my neighbors for charitable donations for starving kids in Africa. I remember saying to him, you’ve got something stuck between your teeth. How ironic is that? Since that’s when I noticed what he had a taste for. I’ve never spoken to this guy before, ever, even though he lives right next door,” Nan said, gnawing on her index finger; she swallowed a fleck of black nail polish. “It was green though, not flesh colored, probably spinach or broccoli.” She shuddered.

Detective Dante Alvarez grimaced, then nodded, his face flat, his eyes sharp, as he scratched notes onto a yellow pad of paper. He pressed down real hard, Nan noticed. Hard enough to etch her witness’ statement into the dining room table? She wondered. Her fifteen minutes of fame should be transcribed somewhere in case she missed taping it–on Channel WCSH at six, the reporter had reassured her three times.

“Dante, that’s a nice name, like the author of “The Divine Comedy”, the nine circles of Hell story,” Nan said, pointing at his badge with the chipped nail. “So Dante, what level of Hell do you think Saul Rankin will get? Being a cannibal and all, I’m thinking the refrigerator section circle,” she added with the snort-chuckle noise she made when flirting, hoping the handsome, stoic detective would surrender a smile to her.

“In Hell?” he replied with down turned lips.

She flushed under her white foundation. “Yeah, well, okay, maybe not.” She chose another finger to sample and fought the impulse to twirl a lock of her inky hair.

“So, that was your only exchange with Mr. Rankin?”

“Yes, detective.” The lie puckered Nan’s mouth a bit, tasting tart as it crossed her lips. She had hit on Saul Rankin most days, especially when she knew. After all the strung out strangers, odd containers, and curious smells had peaked her appetite. But the nerd had never taken her bait, showing no interest in her piece of ass. She had hoped to become his lackey Igor apprentice, an occasional dinner companion, or whatever. During their last exchange at his apartment door, Saul had finally managed a shy smile with a garnish adorning his bicuspid. But still, no invite. Fed up, Nan had called the cops.

Detective Dante Alvarez stood up to leave and gave Nan’s hand a gentle handshake. “Thank you for calling us. You’ve spared lives and saved this community. I’m sorry. This has been very traumatic, I’m sure. But Social Services can arrange counseling for you. I highly recommend it.”

She grinned sheepish, held his hand too long. “Will you be there?”

“Ah, no.”

“So long, and to hell with you, Dante,” Nan thought. She slid her tongue over her teeth, starving for something, craving everything, wishing she had fangs.