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KNIVES & BONES

T here’s something morbidly fascinating about Timmy’s attachment to all his bones and blades. In addition to the knife he always carries—a switchblade, he’s got a full pair of deer antlers, and the deer spine necklace I recognize from his Tinder profile. The antlers are huge and pointy, and the necklace is pretty sharp too, actually. It’s like a lei, but made of animal bones. And he also has a deer skull with antlers attached. Definitely weird.

He wears the antlers and the vertebrae necklace around a lot. It’s like he’s reenacting some primeval rite.

The odd part isn’t just that he wears them out in public or at all—it’s the pride he takes in them, a glow that crosses his face whenever he describes how he hunted the deer and stripped its bones.

Okay, I guess I kind of get it. He’s proud of it, his first time hunting.

I’m not opposed to hunting, per se, especially when the meat is utilized, and clearly these items bring him joy.

But it’s definitely unusual to wear antlers and a spine around.

He also has a different necklace with beads and deer… claws? Hooves? Something like that.

And then one day he randomly gifts the claw necklace to me. He puts it around my neck. “This is for you,” he says. “I want you to have it.”

“Thanks?” I say. I’m not really a big… wearer of dead animals. But I don’t judge people who wear leather or fur super harshly, I suppose, although I prefer the faux versions for myself.

Just a Timmy quirk.

He brings the antlers and spine necklace over and stores them in my apartment so he can wear them on a regular basis. I don’t love them being there, but they’re not hurting anyone.

“I always carry a knife,” Timmy says casually, indicating the sharp blade hanging from the top of his board shorts. “You never know when you might need it around here.”

The knife itself, sinister and sharp with its dark handle and silver detailing, seems more suited for a survival show than the busy streets of Sunset Cay lined with restaurants and beach shops.

I glance around the tourist district, where the biggest threat is usually an overpriced meal or sunburn.

“Okay? Why exactly?” I give him side-eye. “Like for construction work or something else?”

“Things happen around here,” he explains, his voice low, glancing around as if he’s used to spotting trouble before anyone else does. “You’d be surprised. I like to be prepared to intervene if I have to.”

It sounds a bit over-the-top, but, then again, I know people carry self-defense items all the time. Hell, isn’t this the country where people carry guns around just in case? I know I’ve carried pepper spray and cat-ear keychains that could poke someone if needed. So a knife seems… reasonable? And useful, I suppose? He’s always cutting leaves off things to make leis and whatnot, too.

“Intervene?” I laugh nervously, wondering if he’s exaggerating or if there’s some hidden world in these streets that I just haven’t seen yet. “You mean, like, defend yourself or something?”

He shrugs, smirking a little. “I mean, yeah, like I’d be able to defend you if some weird people started following us or starting a fight. It happens, you know. And it’s better to be prepared.” There’s a flash of something in his eyes, like he’s playing out a scene in his mind, and it’s oddly both unsettling and oddly reassuring.

“It does? Around here?” While there are definitely people up to no good here, just like anywhere else, they tend to stick to themselves. There’s a heavy police presence to protect tourists, and I haven’t really felt in danger except when I’ve accidentally wandered down a dark alley trying to find a restaurant or something.

“Yeah, once I actually saved a girl,” he says earnestly, his eyes lighting up. “Her boyfriend was strangling her. I jumped over a bush and punched him in the face, and then distracted him with my knife while she ran away to safety.”

I gasp. “Oh wow. That was heroic of you.”

“Yeah, he tried to fight me, but I pulled out my knife to show him I wasn’t playing around,” he explains. “So I always think it’s important to carry it and have it readily available.”

“That sounds intense,” I say. Because it really does. I’ve lived in several big cities around the country, where crime rates are known for being high, and I don’t remember anyone I know ever having carried a knife around. Pepper spray, maybe. But never a weapon. But maybe lots of people I’ve known have carried knives and they’ve just kept them concealed. Harder for Timmy whose signature uniform is board shorts, no shirt, no shoes.

Besides, he knows this island way better than me. And I’ve mainly stuck to the tourist spots. Maybe things get a little rowdier, a little less heavily policed, where the locals hang out.

He continues. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve had to do. Some of the things I’ve seen.”

His words come out of nowhere, and there’s a darkness about him that I haven’t really seen before.

“I’ve spent so many nights in game rooms and other shady places. I’ve sold drugs and festival balls and all sorts of things I needed to.”

He’s making himself sound like a tough guy out of an action movie.

“Um.. wow. Okay, what’s a festival ball?”

“It’s a big firework. Very loud, beautiful when it goes off. ”

“And what’s a game room? Like an arcade?”

“Kind of. It’s where all the gang members and drug dealers go to launder money. There’s gambling and all sorts of stuff going on. And you can hire people to… take care of certain things.”

“Oh, I see,” I frown. “Well, I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore.”

He looks almost wistful. “When someone really fucks up on this island, they sometimes get dealt with. There’s a wood chipper…”

“A wood chipper?” I flinch at the thought, immediately understanding he’s not talking about using it to process wood..

He nods, a dark gleam in his eye, as if he’s proud to know the gritty details most people don’t. “Can you imagine what a human body looks like, being processed through a woodchipper? What that sounds like?”

My mind flashes back to a movie where that happened. I can’t remember which one, but I remember what it looked like, and I shiver.

“I—I guess I can, but I don’t really want to? I guess like a meat grinder, but for humans?”

“It’s very loud, and very disturbing to watch,” he nods, his mouth pressed together in a grim line, his eyes gleaming. “But it’s also very quick. Efficient. And there’s little to no chance of anyone ever identifying the body. Because it’s in tiny little pieces. And it gets scattered around and buried in mulch, like regular fertilizer. That’s how we take care of things around here.” He looks wistful again.

I’m pretty sure he’s full of shit, so I change the subject.

He’s a storyteller, and I imagine that kind of talk impresses some of his male buddies. But I just think it’s him being a weirdo, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable.

If anything, I might be able to use it in a book, I suppose.

I try to laugh it off, but there’s an unease that lingers. I’m assuming he’s just pulling my leg, but the glint of pride, or something like satisfaction in his expression, makes me wonder just how close he’s really been to things like that.