Page 19 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

They both glance down. Fluids seep steadily through the plastic, trailing behind them in glistening blobs. The stench—sweet, rotten, coppery—hits them at the same time.

The tall one gags, dry heaving into his shoulder. “You said it wouldn’t bleed.”

“It shouldn’t bleed! Not like this!” the short one snaps, wiping his hands on his pants. “Also, I don’t think it’s blood.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna hurl! Why’d you cut his head off anyway?”

“I didn’t mean to. Who knew it was gonna pop off like that?”

The tall one stares at him. “What did you think would happen when you wrapped piano wire around a guy’s neck?”

“It wasn’t piano wire. We aren’t the mob. It was 50-pound test braided fishing line. I was using it cause it’s stronger. Cleaner. The guy at the shop said it would tie better.”

“You asked the guy at the shop how to tie up a dead body?” The tall one asks.

“No. I used fish as an example, obviously. I’m not stupid. I wanted to keep this guy a tidy package so we could move him easier. Instead of like this. It was about logistics.”

“You cut off his head. That’s not logistics—that’s escalation.”

The shorter guy throws up his hands. “Okay,so sorrythe angle was off! I had to improvise!” He waves at the dripping bundle. “This isn’t exactly in the handbook, alright?”

The tall one glares at him, then flinches as another warm rivulet snakes down his wrist. “Jesus Christ, he’s juicing me. You know I can’t handle… fluids.”

“Think of it like a rancid Capri Sun with a broken straw,” the short one mutters, pinching his nose.

The tall one nearly vomits on the spot. “Don’t. Ever. Say. That. Again.”

They shuffle another ten feet, the bundle leaving a shiny trail behind them.

“Okay, okay,” the short one says, scanning the street. His eyes land on a pickup parked under a dead streetlight. “There.”

The tall one blinks. “There?What’sthere?That’s not a plan.”

“It’s a direction. Big difference. We’ll throw it in the backa’ that truck.”

The tall one exhales, gagging again. “We’ve been hauling him around since last night. I don’t care if we stuff him in a mailbox at this point. Just—move.”

They stagger toward the truck. The tall one’s foot slips in the trail behind them, sending him sprawling onto the plastic. There’s a wet crunch.

He freezes. “Oh god, tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.”

The short one winces. “Depends. Do you think it was his shoulder bone punching through the wrap?”

The tall man retches violently into the gutter.

“Unbelievable,” the short one mutters, hauling him up by the elbow. “I’m doing all the work here. Yet you’re the one who keeps losing his fucking lunch.”

They reach the truck, and the tall one blinks blearily at the door. “No way… this idiot left it unlocked.”

The short one grins, teeth flashing in the dark. “Sometimes the universe gives back.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the tall one mutters, wiping vomit from his chin. “We’re just lucky the owner’s a moron.”

They hoist the corpse into the bed, plastic tearing against the ridged metal. A gush of dark fluid spills out, dripping through the grooves and pattering onto the asphalt.

Both men freeze, gagging in unison.

“Smells like hot pennies and roadkill,” the tall one whispers, choking.