The Butcher's Theater: A Novel by Jonathan Kellerman

Author:Jonathan Kellerman [Kellerman, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Suspense
Amazon: B000FBF7Y8
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2003-05-20T05:00:00+00:00

A big nigger and a little nigger-kike. And a little worm of a dog that would be good for a few minutes of fun.

Beautiful, just beautiful.

Amos and Andy. King Kong and Ikey-Kikey in blackface.

Nigger-kike—the very idea was a joke. De-evolution at its nadir, selective breeding for stupidity and weakness.

The little asshole was stupid, which was why he listed his name in the phone book. Everyone in this fucking country did—you could look up the mayor, go to his house, and blow his face off when he came out the front door.

Come and get me. Instant victim: Just add Jew genes.

Reminded him of that invention he’d thought of as a kid. Insta-Auschwitz, little green box on wheels. Quick disposal of unwanted pets. And other untermensch nuisances. Clean it all up. Cut it away.

Look at that. Rufus and Ikey-Kikey Blackface limped out on the bench like a couple of grokked-out winos.

What did you get when you crossed a nigger with a kike—a janitor who owned the building? A shylock who ripped himself off?

One big hook-nose squashed flat.

One hell of a circumcision—have to use a chain saw.

The man felt the laughter climbing up through his esophagus, forced himself to keep it bottled up. He feigned relaxation, seated on the grass among all the other people, half-hidden behind a newspaper, wearing a wig and mustache that made him someone else. Scanning the park with cold eyes concealed behind sunglasses. One hand on the paper, the other in his pocket, fondling himself.

All those kids and families, kikes and sand-niggers. He would have loved to come rolling in with a giant chain saw of his own. Or maybe a lawn mower or a combine, something relentless and gas-powered . . . No, nuclear-powered, with gigantic blades, as sharp as his little beauties but big. As big as helicopter rotors.

And loud, making a sound like an air-raid siren. Panic-feeding, ear-bleeding loud. Blood-freezing loud.

Come rolling in with the nuke-mower, just pushing it through the human lawn, listening to the screams, churning everything up.

Back to the primordial soup.

Some terrific game, a real pleasure diddle. Maybe one day.

Not yet. He had other things to do. Hors d’oeuvres.

Project Untermensch.

The one who’d refused him had set things back, fucked up the weekly rhythm, really gotten him upset.

Stupid sand-nigger bitch, his money hadn’t been good enough.

He’d watched her for a couple of days, gotten interested because of her face, the perfect fit for his mind-pictures. Even when she put on the tacky red wig, it was all right. He’d take it off. Along with everything else.

Everything came off.

Then she goes and fuck-you’s him.

Unreal.

But that’s what he got for improvising, deviating from the plan.

Trying to be casual—that never worked.

The important thing was structure. Following the rules. Keeping everything clean.

He’d gone home that night and punished himself for stepping out of bounds.

Using one of the little dancing beauties—the smallest bistoury—he’d incised a series of curved discipline cuts in the firm white skin of his inner thighs. Close to the scrotum—don’t slip, ha, ha, or there’ll be a major endocrine adjustment.

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