04/06/2014 by Alan Crawford
House inspection but the yard smells
It was dark, lonely and very confusing out there in the backyard. There were some tell tale marks of a visitor, but no sound or smells that would identify it’s nature. It did smell though. Only the old bloke in the front patio recliner could describe what went on out there and he couldn’t say anything because his head was floating in the ice bucket beside him. He might have enjoyed his low carb and low alcohol beer, although neither really did him any good. There may be a house inspection but the yard smells.
Malcolm just wandered about in the backyard trying to figure out what went on, or more to the point, what lead to the old guy’s head coming off. It was a clean, one action swipe by the look, no tearing, hesitation or struggle – just a whoosh, bounce and splash. Wildlife abounds around this old place, as do meth addicts, some homeless souls and some pretty dubious folk to which a snappy tag could not be applied. They hang around the local shops, the park and seem to annoy anybody coming anywhere near them, unless of course they are targeting them for money, voluntarily or not.
It turns out the old bloke was also called Malcolm, a coincidence the live Malcolm was none too happy about and he did look very familiar. He even wore the same baggy comfort “homer pants” that the live Malcolm wore. Even though this was weird enough finding a headless man on the front porch, the real-estate woman conducting the inspection seemed more like a front line football player than a sweet professional lady. She had language that made the live Malcolm blush and she smelt like a meat works at the height of summer.
This impression developed in the scary 10 minute drive to 6 Southern Terrace. So what reaction did she offer regarding the headless Malcolm and the dangerous back yard ? Well nothing really, she ran of screaming as soon as they saw poor old headless. Live Malcolm was interested in buying the house, it met all his needs and was located pretty close to work, the old faded wooded home would provide just the renovation job he was looking for and when complete (and the local animals removed or dead) it would be a great renter.
He wouldn’t want to live there himself, it was just too small. The headless Malcolm had built the house in the 50s and aside from the smell and staining on the front patio, it seemed well maintained. The large and much loved and private garden was a bonus, as was the swimming pool hiding beneath a winter cover. Malcolm thought rightly at the time, but not after doing so, that he’d check out the water under the pool cover.
When he lifted the cover the source of the smell was obvious, the pool was a pool of deceased bodies of all types, people, dogs, cats, cows, horses and even a shark. What the fuck was headless doing in this house? why the fuck would all this detritus soup be swilling about in the swimming pool. The only movement was provided by the other creatures living, eating and breeding in this smorgasbord of gruesome.
So Malcolm rang the testosterone riddled real-estate woman and organised to make an offer, a very low offer of course and recommended that she ring the Police. The selling price dropped some when the dust and globules settled, Malcolm had a new place to work. The renovation was just a front of course, he had a target market of meth laden scum to get rid of and a side line of taxidermy to practice, the house would be just perfect.
When the settlement was completed and he had a beer or two, he had plenty of time to set up the razor sharp guillotine security system on the front patio.