That's a Lot to Ask For

The blood pooling in his lap was beginning to resemble chocolate-cake icing. Pretty ironic he thought, considering how lousy he’d been at making the damned stuff for his kids’ various birthday parties and celebrations, always either too hard or too runny. Trailing his finger through it now in a vortex pattern he noticed how the waves took longer and longer to subside. He resisted the temptation to trace a heart shape with a set of initials on either side. Those days were gone, apparently.

The kitchen knife, which was what had caused this source of amusement, was sticking out of that spot just above the collarbone and close to the neck. Blood was still emerging on one side of the blade and oozing out in lazy rivulets, slowly curling its way down to join the lake in his crotch.
‘She’s stabbed me,’ he thought, ‘in my own kitchen! How am I going to turn off the gas?’ Marv sat there with a perplexed look, leaking blood.
It had all begun that Saturday night.

‘What did I ask you to do this morning, ay?’ Marv had been standing in the narrow galley kitchen of their single-story terrace in Brunswick, preparing that evening’s Jamie Oliver creation. ‘Stocky’, was how his friends had started to describe him recently. Which was annoying, because he’d been as skinny as a rake during his youth. He and Marge let themselves off the hook, by saying that their diet wasn’t the problem. They ate well. They only ate the ‘good’ fats. And weren’t the French saying that red wine every day was good for the heart? Plus he DID walk every day. 30 minutes, down to Brunswick road and back. Marv silently cursed the day he’d given up smoking. After all, it was the fagging that had kept his weight off all that time, wasn’t it? So what can you expect? When she spoke he was about to begin sautéing the onions.
Meanwhile, his wife was starting to go red in the face. ‘Get the frikkin’ lotto. Is that too much to ask? Do I ask for a lot? What have I ever asked for that’s sooo bloody much. I can’t rely on you to do one frikkin’ thing without you screwin’ it up. Is goin’ to the lotto shop such a lot to ask of Mr-I’m-too-important–to-remember-such-trivial-crap?

Marge wasn’t the fresh-faced Olay commercial that she used to be back in the ‘eighties, either. Over the years, what with the gin and the fags, the ravages had set in. Her disposition had also changed and it was in direct proportion to her skin tone. It may have had something to do with Marv’s inconsistent income too, but we’ll never know, because the final straw had just been lowered onto that camel’s back. She was about to blow.
‘And now, have you seen tonight’s numbers? My birth date, your birth date, Jack’s birth date, Mum’s, Dad’s and Nigel’s birth dates!’ She was screeching now and Marv was getting a feeling that made him a tad uncomfortable. He was pretty sure he felt the joists vibrating. ‘The whole frikkin’ six! Three point two million bucks! Down the gurgler!’ That’s when she lunged.

She must have plucked the knife from the block on the kitchen bench whilst in flight, because Marv hadn’t seen any planning or aforethought. One moment she was standing there, screaming, and then in one fluid movement, she was in mid-air, horizontal, arms outstretched with the slender Gabriel Gaté fish filleting knife in her hand, about to sever some major artery or other. It didn’t matter which, so long as it was an artery.
‘Are you too busy now?’ she screamed, spit flying off at various angles.

What could he do? There was no fending her off with any tricky kung fu manoeuvres. No turning and running like the wind. It all happened so fast. All he could do was stand there, scrunch up his eyes in preparation, and wait for the pain. And there WAS pain. A LOT of it.
The knife, a recent purchase Marv had saved all his shopping change for, embedded it self in that soft depression we were talking about. Initially, blood had squirted out vertically, dumping itself on Marge. It wasn’t a desirable look for a professional woman. A little reminiscent of Carrie White in the famous denouement of an early Stephen king classic.

‘Aorta get an ambulance around here pretty bloody fast’, thought Marv with a chuckle, and then pulling himself up short, decided that now was not the time to fool around.  Apart from the pain, the blood loss was starting to go to his head. Giddiness was setting in and he thought that sitting down would be a pretty good idea. The good woman had never found his humour worth laughing at anyway.

So now, a little bit of time had gone by since a spectacular dive worthy of Esther Williams had brought Marv down. The initial shock of being attacked so violently by the she-wolf had worn off and now the real shock was setting in. Marv’s movements were getting slower and his mouth was hanging open, allowing a stalactite of saliva to reach for the floor. His thinking was starting to get a little muzzy too.

‘We have a 5 week entry with those numbers. This is only the third week. There’s no need to buy another entry, ‘cos we’re covered and it’s all on the card. How am I going to turn the gas off?’ he whispered through a half a litre of spit, and then smiled.

‘What are you muttering about over there you moron? Do I have to come over there and finish the job? The banshee had been sitting in a corner, muttering to herself when she heard Marv. She started to get to her feet, looking around for another weapon, when her eyes lit on the rolling pin.

‘No. Too much like Dagwood and Blondie. This is MUCH better.’ Her eyes stopped on the meat tenderiser, that heavy aluminium hammer with the knobbly edge, that people mistakenly used to flatten slices of beef into so-called schnitzels.  Picking it up she marvelled at how good it felt in her hand. The perfect weight. Spinning it in her hand several times she nodded to herself in appreciation. ‘Too much to ask for was it? Well I’ve got the perfect remedy for that mental problem of yours darling,’ crooned the old ball and chain as she slowly turned to face Marv. She began to make her way towards him, a smile curling one side of her mouth. The dried blood on her face crazing, like the surface of the Mona Lisa, which she definitely was not.

Marv took his fingers away from the maroon puddle between his legs and began reaching for his right trouser pocket. It was difficult at first. The way his pants had creased when he fell to the floor, one leg out straight, the other folded under his butt in a dynamic z-shape. Burrowing in amongst the folds, he cursed the need to wear ‘comfortable fit’ jeans. His old 101s wouldn’t have caused this problem, but when Marge decided that he could accept her the way she was or not at all, he must have relaxed too. Hence the ‘relaxed fit’ jeans. Jamie Oliver’s ‘best-ever fry-ups’ didn’t help either.

Tissue, fifty-cent piece, a dollar, lint…

…the bitch was still coming, passing the fridge, almost at the stove. Her nose twitched at the odd smell, but she ignored it as she remembered her mission. The smile had twisted both sides of her mouth now. She was beginning to resemble Jack Nicholson in that Batman movie. The Joker. More irony, thought Marv. Boy, that meat tenderiser felt like it had been designed for her hand, thought Marge.

Deeper in his pocket, a folded shopping list, a key, then, Marv felt the familiar smooth surface. The rectangular flat box with the beautiful curved corners, hinged lid. It felt good in his hand. He started to withdraw it, loving the cool, glossy feel. He could see it now, just making out the inscription in curly, feminine letters: ‘To Marv. Luvya4ever’, and he thanked the good woman for giving him the Zippo for his fortieth birthday. The day before he’d decided to give up. She never really was very good at timing.

Marv flipped back the lid and turned the flint wheel. A spark flashed and the wick caught fire.

‘The condemned man smokes a last cigarette’, chuckled the Little Woman. ‘I hope it satisfies you, because THIS is going to satisfy ME! Marge took her final step.

Without knowing where the strength was coming from he tossed the lighter forward. The witch’s eyes bulged as all the air around her turned to fire.

‘Yeah, that feels pretty good.’