Salt on the Wound

By Michael Dublin

Steve Zell, affectionately known as Z Man, was once Mike Benjamins best buddy, best man, and business partner. But two years ago, Zell turned on Benjaminwho eventually lost his business, his wife and child, and his lifestyle. Its taken two years, but Benjamin has carefully planned his revenge. He doesnt want to kill Zell. He just wants to ruin his life.

Disguised as a homeless man named Howard Meeks, Benjamin kidnaps Zell, drugs him, cuts off his ten toes, cauterizes the wounds, and dumps his body where it can be easily found. Zell will never run or play tennis again. But the physical pain is only the beginning of his problemsand only the beginning of what Benjamin plans to do to his former friend.

Because of the past issues within their relationship, Benjamin quickly becomes the prime suspect in Zells assault. Only time will tell if Benjamin is able to avoid detection and prosecution as he tries to bring about the downfall of Zells entire family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462053094

Michael Dublin

Michael Dublin lives in Atlanta, Georgia. This is his debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Start

Fayetteville, Georgia, is a city of about twenty thousand everyday kind of folk. It’ a good place to bring up children but a bad place to party. Sunday in Fayetteville means no drinking. In fact, there are no beer sales in the stores, and there isn’t even a liquor store or head shop to be found here. Can you say ultra Baptist?

It was early spring in the South; the trees were blooming, the birds were chirping, and the temperature was sixty-eight degrees. It was so refreshing that even I couldn’t believe I was about to disfigure my ex-best buddy, ex-best man at my last wedding, ex-business partner. But he went from being all of those things to being a scumbag motherfucker. If some or all of the language in this book offends you, I’m sorry. You can then return the book to me personally, but I will not return any of your purchase price. You spent the money. I’ll be dipped if I will return one penny of it.

It was early morning in Fayetteville, and I only had a couple hours to complete my task. What is that task, you ask? Simple, I was about to cut off Steve Zell’s toes, all ten of those dainty little beauties. Then I was going to get rid of the evidence so they could never be traced. Now Z-Man, as I always called him, is forty-two, five foot ten, and 165 pounds. He is bald but with a full moustache. He is a heavy smoker. His favorite sport is playing tennis. After today, he will never do that again. See, when you cut off someone’s toe or, in this case, all of them, he loses his sense of balance, his equilibrium, his ability to stand up. What a shame, but I wasn’t going to lose sleep over this. Fuck him. Me? I’m forty-eight, five foot eight, and 185 pounds. I call myself terminally chubby with a slight bulge around the middle and the pants just a little lower than they should be, but a really good athlete.

I was driving toward my mission in a beat-up pickup, which I had the presence of mind to steal. I was dressed somewhat like a homeless person: rumpled hat; old, torn shirt; disheveled coat; and dirty and worn sneakers with no socks. I had, for the better part of two years, pretended to be a mute. See, if at any time I would speak, my voice being that distinctive, people would know who I was, and I could not and would not let that happen. I had donned a gray, shaggy wig. I put in dark blue contact lenses to hide my beautiful greenish eyes, scarred my face, and, lastly, enlarged my nose. All in all, even when I looked into the mirror, I had trouble knowing who I was. It had taken the better part of a month to come up with this perfect disguise. It had taken me almost that much practice time to make sure that, every time I put it on, it would be the same. The need for the disguise will be clearer as the crime unfolds.

As I drove toward my final destination, I took the time to carefully remove any sign of Howard Meeks, the homeless man I was pretending to be. I peeked through the now-glassless partition between the cab and the bed of the pickup to make sure Z-Man was still not moving from the drugs I had injected into him.

Yo, Z-Man, can you hear me? Yo, scumbag! Guess who’s in a world of trouble? Guess who’s wishing he’d never fucked with Mike Benjamin? I’ll tell you later. I know you can hear me, Steve-O. Oh, that’s right. You can’t answer me. I have your mouth duct-taped shut. Got you tied up so you really can’t move too well. Too bad you didn’t think to do that before you voted me out of my own business. It’s a far, far better thing I do now than I’ve ever done before, but you deserve the fucking of your useless life. This is the gift that will be yours twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five. Too bad you will hate every minute of it for the rest of your life.

Chapter Two

Memories

The truck reminded me of that old Bill Haley and the Comets song, Shake, Rattle, and Roll, because the pickup did exactly that. As I drove through the Georgia cities of Dunwoody, Doraville, and Riverdale toward Fayetteville, my mind drifted back to that time a little more than two years ago in the lawyer’s office when everyone in that room told me I was out.

Hey, Z-Man, remember? Remember that slimeball lawyer Fox telling us we needed to file bankruptcy because you had run the business into the ground? Remember me saying all the creditors would wait to get paid on a week-to-week basis? They could get paid COD and a little on the old balance? Remember your fuckin’ father-in-law and that fat fuckin’ lawyer Fox saying we could not do that? Did you or anyone else in that room bother to mention that there was no corporation because you intentionally did not pay the license for two years? And in this state, as I’m sure you know, any corporation that has failed to pay for a business license for that period of time automatically dissolves? Well, in a few minutes, Z-Man, you spineless bastard, I will automatically cut off your toes. That’s right. All of them. I would castrate you also, but I believe that you’re so dickless that would be a waste of time. The name you want to remember is Howard Meeks. I can’t get to your father-in-law, the Schwartz, but hurting you will hurt your wife, his little girl, so in effect, I’m hurting him, too. Don’t you wish the Schwartz could be with you now?

Chapter Three

Now Time

There is nothing better than a morning drive with a purpose involved. I drove down Highway 85 through Riverdale, entered Fayetteville, and made a half left turn onto Jeff Davis Drive. Over the years, every time I would be near Jeff Davis or South Jeff Davis Drive, I thought to myself that the South would never rise again and they still lost the war. I was getting too close to where I needed to be. It was only a few more blocks to drive to get to our final destination, the C. Hammell-Morriss-Funeral Home. I always called it the Rock because a funeral home is cold, final, and depressing. I still don’t get it. The first three letters of funeral are fun. What fun is death?

I worked here, and I only had about four hours to complete my dismembering of Z-Man, drop him in his special spot, contact the police, rid myself of the truck, and disappear before my bosses got here. As I turned the pickup into the parking lot, I turned my head toward my passenger.

Okay, Steve-O, we have reached what will be your home and hell for a little while.

The look of total fear on Steve’s face brought a twinkle of gleam on my body and a shiver of pleasure down my spine. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to relish the moment. I backed the pickup to the work area, got out, and quickly went inside to retrieve the gurney I would use to transport Steve to the work area. I brought the gurney to the back of the pickup, locked the wheels, and slid Steve out of the truck and onto the gurney. Making sure that Steve was strapped securely to the gurney, to the point of being almost immobile, I wheeled my pal, my buddy, my victim into the workroom of the Rock.

Specializing in cremations, this was a simple room, but it served its purpose with ovens, worktables, urns, and my makeup kit for those times when we did an actual funeral. I wanted to put up a sign that said Satisfaction Guaranteed, but it did not seem right.

I looked down at Steve. Remember Howard Meeks. Before I remove the duct tape from your mouth, Steve, promise you won’t scream.

He nodded his head up and down to indicate he would comply with my wishes. I knew he would still be less than 100 percent conscious because of the drugs I had given him. I also knew it was important for me to stay as calm as I could. Otherwise I would probably lose my cool and kill the son of a bitch.

With duct tape removed, Steve looked at me. Why?

I laughed. You’re fucking kidding me, right? I let you into my business. I let you run it, and in your case, you ran it into the ground. Then you bring another partner into the business. Then you get your father-in-law to invest in another restaurant. Then you fuck up that store also. Then you throw me out of my own business, which makes my wife leave me. And you have the fucking nerve to ask me why! You maliciously tried to ruin my life. Fortunately for me, Steve, I hated you so much at that point. Not that anything has changed. I was able to survive and prosper enough to enact this, what should turn out to be a simple but effective form of revenge. I will ruin your life, and I will see you suffer every day of your useless life, you spineless bastard. Steve, if you believe in prayer, this might be a good time to start praying. Understand this is my first time on a live body. If you don’t pray, I would reach way down deep and ask for a little help because you will need it. You won’t feel any pain because, believe it or not, I do know what I’m doing. You ask what’s about to happen. Oh, nothing much. All I’m going to do is remove all ten of your toes. I mention ten only because, at times, I think you’re so stupid that you can’t count that high. As a matter of fact, I may remove one of your fingers also so you won’t be able to count to ten.

Thinking back, I realized I inadvertently had disclosed the fact that I had worked on bodies before.

Oh, well. Too late to worry about that now, I thought.

I had to count on the fact that Steve was so doped up and scared that he would not remember that small slipup. He knew who, and I wanted him to know, but I knew that, with the amount of drugs I had shot into him, it would still, at best, be a fuzzy memory.

Steve started to yell in protest, which I figured was normal under the circumstances.

"Look to your left, Steve-O. That, oh, I can’t tell you who that is because that would be a clue as to where you are. I will tell you, however, that you and he will share a . . . shall I say . . . a life-bonding experience in a few moments.

Unfortunately, we won’t be able to hang out and have a few beers while your toes and his being go into the oven and turn to ashes.

I looked to my right, gazed at the body of George Davidson Williamson III, and winked. In my mind, I said thanks because next to Z-Man was George Davidson Williamson III lying in the cremation box, waiting for his last and final BBQ. Of course, he didn’t know he was the BBQ. I guess when you’re dead that you don’t really care what is done to you. In this case, he would be very, very well done. I then took fresh duct tape and covered Steve’s mouth.

The oven was set to turn on, the temperature set at twenty-five hundred degrees, and all I had to do was complete my slicing and dicing and roll the box into the oven and flip the switch. I checked all my tools, the three-inch ultra-sharp cutting shears and the now-lit Bunsen burner with the one-inch-wide chisel sitting on top getting white-hot. The shears for cutting and the chisel for cauterizing the wounds were all set, which meant it was time. I repositioned my asbestos glove so I could put it on fast and cauterize as quickly as possible.

I gave Steve a final shot of Novocain because, after all, I wasn’t totally heartless and I did not need him moving around trying to get away from what I was doing. That left only one more thing to do before surgery. I reached for the tape recorder. One of most important parts of the plan was to make sure no clues were traced back to me. Therefore, it was up to Steve to tell the police where he was after I returned him to civilization. Steve was, as expected, half-aware of being in a place he still had no idea he should be at. This was a normal reaction to be drugged almost to the point of being incoherent.

Okay, Steve. Blink your eyes if you can hear me.

Steve blinked as suggested.

Good. Now once again, I am going to remove the duct tape from your mouth. This time, however, please don’t say a word. If you do, it will piss me off to the point where I will do more harm to you than I really want to do, if that’s possible. All right then. Here we go.

I removed the duct tape. Steve still had a look of drugged bewilderment, but that was exactly what I wanted.

Steve, repeat after me. It’s Howard Meeks who did this to me, and my name is Steve Zell.

I turned on the tape recorder. He said the names, and I turned it off. I repeated this procedure several times until Steve had repeated all the pertinent necessary information so the police could and would find him after I dropped him off in a semiremote area that I had found in Dunwoody not far from the store.

The time had come. Although I had worked on many dead bodies during my time as a mortician, this would be my first live body. The silence in the room was wonderful. To me, this meant that nothing was on the tape recording except the voice and directions I had given to Steve to repeat into the tape recorder. Before starting, I checked to make sure the temperature in the oven was preset, and that made me smile, knowing it was ready. I wanted to let out a mad scientist laugh but thought better of that and finished my prep work on Steve-O. I knew Steve was doped up enough not to feel any pain, but I needed to be sure he would not squirm around on me while I was hacking off his toes and cauterizing his soon-to-be stumps. I got out the tank of nitrous gas, hooked up Steve, and turned the valve to high. I knew it would take about two minutes to take effect on Steve, which gave me just enough time to double-check everything. While I was checking everything, I was half-thinking it would be nice for me to take a thirty-minute nitrous break about now.

No, it’s the wrong time to screw off, I thought.

I took the bottle of Vicks and applied two fingers’ worth of Vicks under my nose, knowing this would help me not puke my guts out while dismembering Steve-O.

I donned my surgical gloves and goggles and looked down upon the still-whole Steve Zell for what would be his last few minutes as a complete person. I removed Steve’s shoes and socks, and at that point, I was glad I was wearing gloves.

Steve, grunt if you can hear me.

A grunt followed. I hate to say it was an expression that Steve used all the time. I hated it when he said it, and he knew that you are fucked. After all, I was not trying to kill Steve. Just ruining his life was much better.

Steve, you should be glad I’m doing this. You have one of the worst cases of athlete’s foot I have ever seen. Your feet must burn you all the time. Do they smell also? What a slob you are. Did that sound sarcastic to you? Too fuckin’ bad if it did, but that’s right. At this point, you can’t answer me anyway. Remember, Howard Meeks.

A working song would be good, I thought to myself. How about Whistle While You Work? Or the Alka-Seltzer song? Oh, you know, chop chop cut cut. Oh, that’s right. It’s plop plop fizz fizz. Oh, what a relief it is. Since I am removing his bad case of athlete’s foot, should I also give Steve a bill for services rendered? Not a good idea. No.

Stop stalling, I told myself. Get to the task itself. When it’s all said and done, you will enjoy life again, something you haven’t been able to do for two-plus years the way you wanted to.

In reality, aside from not having a family, most single guys, or even married guys, would love to have my life. I checked my workbench for the last time: Bunsen burner, chisel, asbestos glove, and, last but most important, the cutting shears. I was starting with the little toes first. Two factors involved in my thinking. If I fucked up, it would only be a small fuckup. If I ran out of time, only the small toes would still serve the purpose of ruining Steve’s equilibrium.

I picked up the shears with my left hand and cut through the little toe on Steve’s left foot. The sound of the bone being separated from the rest of the body was almost like a person cracking his knuckles. It was awkward cutting left-handed on the left foot, but I needed the evidence to point to a left-handed person. Blood spurted everywhere. I expected a lot of blood but not to this extent.

Of course, the heart is pumping, you dumb son of a bitch. It could be worse if Steve were not sedated and his heart were beating faster, I thought.

At this time, I don’t know how I didn’t puke. Planning ahead, what I had done for two years, was, in this case, my salvation. I had not eaten for a day, figuring I might retch but not puke. This was smart thinking on my part. I had never cut a live person. Blood only slightly trickled out of dead people. I was really happy to have the Vicks under my nose when I cauterized the first little victim. I could still smell some of the burning flesh, but not nearly as much as I would have if I were without the Vicks. I started thinking of this procedure more like toe circumcision then dismembering, and it became easier and easier with each passing toe. The biggest problem came after cauterizing the first toe. I should have had two chisels hot, so I would not have to wait for one chisel to get hot enough to seal the wounds. It was too late now, and I would have to deal with both the slight time wait and the extra smell.

After removing the first toe, I picked it up with my tongs, held it in front of my face, and just looked at it for a moment. I had just mutilated a human being, or part of him. I had just removed 10 percent of a person’s stabilizing mechanism. I had, in effect, turned a perfectly good human into a handicapped person. It’s not as if I had not contemplated the result of my actions prior to this moment. It was not until the moment of actually holding that precious little commodity in front of me that I realized what I had done. I would do self-confession later. I would go to temple for Yom Kippur.

I was getting very good at what I was doing to Steve, but I still needed a name for all of this. Then it hit me: Toeleo. Yes, that was the perfect title for what I was doing. But I could never tell anyone about this. It was remembering that game you did with your kids. This little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed home. And so on and so forth. Of course in this case, no toe went home or market or anywhere except in with Mr. George Davidson Williamson III.

I started whistling, and when I was finished chopping and cauterizing, I was a little disappointed that I did not have anything else to chop. All the toes were done, but to me, something was still not right. How could I add insult to injury? I laughed when the idea finally hit me. I could shave half of the moustache. Not a quarter from each side to leave a Hitler moustache, but just half to make it look stupid. Of course, stupid would look natural on Steve. This was like golf or anything someone really enjoyed. When you’re done, it’s a little bit of a downer. Ten seconds passed, and then I slapped myself in my face.

Get restarted and back to the task at hand.

There was no time to waste shaving Steve. I then gathered up Steve’s ten former attachments—close little buddies, if you wish—and placed them in the cremation box that George Davidson Williamson III occupied. I actually felt myself getting sexually aroused while I rolled the box into the oven and flipped on the automatic oven timer. I paused for a moment to listen for the sound of the ignition switch to start the oven. I had not felt this type of exhilaration in a long time. The hunt was over; the kill was done. I enjoyed my work immensely. The only fear I had now was that I would want to enact this performance on people I didn’t know. Nah, that was not going to happen. It took all my hate and anger just to do Steve, and I didn’t know anyone else I could or would hate this much, except his father-in-law, and I did have special plans for him, too. Besides, it took the better part of two years to set this up with places of work and school and illegally securing drugs, gases, and, of course, transportation. I owned two legal forms of transportation: a six-year-old Mazda and a bicycle. I never drove the Mazda to the Rock because I never wanted my bosses to know about the car. If my bosses knew I owned a car, then it would be too easy to trace back to me. No trail. No evidence. No jail.

I looked over at Steve, and since he was still hooked