** This month’s post is something a little different because I no longer have the time to write like I want to. I’m recycling a short story I wrote a couple of years ago that I had stashed away and never did anything with. I hope you enjoy it! KK

THE CUTLERY KILLER

She circled the room slowly, getting a feel for the layout. Blending with the large group of revelers, she hung back hoping to remain as unobtrusive as possible. The waistband of her black skirt dug painfully into her mid-section, momentarily stealing her focus and her breath. The combined body heat from the crowd and anticipation of her mission dotted her upper lip with a slight sheen of perspiration.
Just breathe normally, she admonished herself. You’re a pro. You’re being paid for a job. Don’t think … just get in there and do it!

The icy weight of the weapon in her hand burned her sweaty palm. It was surprisingly heavy for such an ordinary object. Sterling silver, no doubt. Nothing but the best for such an auspicious occasion. It boggled the mind to think of the amount of damage that could be done with so ordinary a utensil as a dinner fork. She placed a quieting hand over her ample bosom to still the abnormal thump of her heart.

Spotting the target, she maneuvered her way through the throng to gain a better vantage point. Drawing closer, every detail of her intended victim was clearly visible. Running her tongue over her lips, the flavor of her fruity gloss lingered, teasing her taste buds. She hungered for the kill. She tugged on the edges of her suit jacket with her free hand to cover the slight roll threatening to escape its tight binding.

Bumped suddenly from behind, she turned and all color drained from her perfectly made up face. Reverend O’Dell’s pudgy wife, Doris, and her annoying rotund daughter, Precious, stared at her accusingly. Her cover blown, she scanned the room for the nearest exit.

Her conscience wrestled within – abort the mission or full steam ahead? But even as her emotions warred, her deceased mother’s words rang out loud and clear in her head, “Manners always matter, dear.” In the end it was no contest and of course, propriety won out.

“So good to see you,” the dumpy duo chimed in unison.

“And you,” she gushed back. With precision reflexes, she transferred the weapon to her opposite hand and pulled it up her sleeve, out of sight, freeing her right hand to shake each of theirs.

After an acceptable exchange of polite chitchat with the chunky minions of judgment, she excused herself. Seeking refuge in the nearest ladies room, the need to compose herself was paramount. Her ears burned from their accusatory inquiries. “What are you doing here?” they’d asked - so disapproving in their assumptions.

Retreating to the safety of the restroom, she locked the door against unwanted intruders. Placing the fork on the counter, she unbuttoned her suit jacket releasing the roll of flesh from its polyester prison for a brief respite. Grabbing a towel, she blotted the dampness clinging to her jowly cheeks and upper lip.

She should never have agreed to this mission. The eventual outcome could prove far too dangerous. It wasn’t that she lacked confidence in her ability to complete the assignment. She’d committed more heinous acts than this in the past. This was nothing! This job ought to be a piece of cake for her.

Cake. Hah! Good one, she thought. But, there was no denying the recent doubts that plagued her sleepless nights. The physical demands the job required were taking a toll on her body. Lifting a hand to smooth her hair, a tiny pearl button on her satin blouse popped open against the sudden strain of movement, revealing a sausage roll of exposed flesh hanging over her waistband – confirming her worst fears. Maybe it is time to “retire” from this line of work she sighed.

Leaning forward with both hands on the counter, she stared at her reflection shuddering at the revulsion she saw reflected back at her. She pulled the taut fabric together praying the delicate button would tether her bulge long enough to see this thing through. Buttoning her suit jacket against her excess midriff, she silently thanked the Reverend’s wife and daughter for fueling her doubts. It was only natural they would be surprised by her presence here. This was a far cry from their usual Wednesday night meeting place. She should have asked them what they were doing here.

She picked up the sterling silver weapon of impending doom, tracing the intricate pattern adorning the hilt. The urge to plunge the cutlery into her center was fleeting, but powerful. No, she mustn’t waiver. Standing up straight, she smoothed her skirt over her generous hips and berated herself for her momentary weakness as her thoughts returned to her mission. Steeling herself for what she knew she must do, she rehearsed everything her training had taught her. As she mentally checked off each practiced step, her body relaxed. Her heartbeat had nearly returned to a normal rhythm, when a light tapping on the door jarred her from her reverie and sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“Excuse me, Aggie. Are you all right, dear?” The unmistakable voice of the elderly innkeeper sounded forceful, belying her 84 years.

“Just a minute,” her voice came out harsher than intended. She was being summoned. It was time. No turning back. Her hostess remained oblivious to the internal conflict raging within. Checking her appearance from all angles, she grabbed her innocuous piece of cutlery and rejoined the group.

The crowd parted unaware of the massacre about to take place. Once she started, there would be no turning back. She knew herself well enough to know that she would perform this mission with speed, accuracy and absolute efficiency. She would give it her all or die trying. The Reverend’s wife Doris and Precious should be very afraid. Hopefully, when all was said and done, they’d stay around long enough to help pick up the pieces.

Seduced by the power she wielded, the air in the room combined to create an intoxicating blend of supreme authority giving her a heady sense of domination. Approaching her intended victim, she realized with a fleeting twinge of guilt, there would be more than just one casualty today. Rigid and focused, she stood beside the Mistress of Ceremonies and prepared to do her worst.

The speaker tapped the microphone, producing an ear-screeching squeal that invited complaints from the bystanders.

“Ladies … we are so honored to have Mayor Agnes Hornswiggle with us today. Please help me welcome her and thank her for agreeing to once again act as Judge for our Ladies Aide Society. She did such an outstanding job with last month’s Cookie Bake-Off; we couldn’t wait to call on her for this month’s Cake and Pie Competition. I happen to have it on good authority that Mayor Aggie’s first place choice of Chocolate Covered Macadamia Nut Cookies, is going to be featured in the new issue of the Ladies of Bixby Baptist Church Cookbook. Mayor Aggie seems to have a God-given knack for picking winners! I for one, can’t wait to have her taste my Double Ripple Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake,” she twittered like a teenage girl.

“Now, I know you all can’t wait for the Mayor to get started and she promises to give each dessert equal consideration. Including the low-calorie pound cake submitted by the Reverend O’Dell’s wife, Doris and her daughter, Precious … which by the way, is a recipe they created especially for their Wednesday night Overeaters Anonymous weight loss group. And remember, Mayor … low calorie does not mean low taste!” She flashed a toothy denture grin and a quick wink to the Mayor and the Reverend’s wife.

Drawing a steadying breath, Aggie pasted a smile on her face, intent on her assault. She mentally itemized her plan of attack. She would begin with the cheesecake in the center and work counter-clockwise from there until everything was destroyed. With a death-like grip on her fork, she approached the table with reserved aplomb. It would be necessary to pace herself. She would need strength for the slaughter.

Sixty-five desserts lay before her artfully displayed. No confection would be overlooked. She was being paid well to carry out her mission; a side of beef and unlimited shoe rental at the Bixby Bowl-a-rama was nothing to sneeze at. She was honor-bound to see this through to the end - no matter the personal cost and sacrifice. It would probably get ugly and most likely she would suffer for it later. But she would not back down.

Possessed with a will of its own, her fork lunged for the first victim. With a certainty borne of experience, Aggie knew the carnage would be absolute. All would suffer the wrath of her fork.

Aided by her weapon of mass destruction, Aggie paused inhaling the essence of her first casualty as it perched on the end of the silver tines. Opening her mouth, she plunged the weapon home and swallowed savoring the taste of pure sin disguised in ripples of raspberry.

A devilish grin contorted her smile. I am the Queen of the Cutlery, she mused. The Mistress of Mayhem who commits murder in the first degree!

Beware my pretties. The subtle seduction of gluttony roams about seeking whom it may devour cleverly disguised in pretty packages, covered with frosting and aided by cutlery. Whom shall fall victim next?