"Night of the Serial Butt-Stabber" - Original Short Story/Satire

          The only light in George’s living room was that from the tv as the National News Network started another episode of its breaking story. His attention was pulled away from the anchorwoman’s blonde hair sprayed to perfection, artificial tan, and alluring cleavage that was just enough to still be friendly with the censors. As the anchorwoman began to speak, the anchorman next to her firmly held his thin stack of papers, staring at the audience with such sternness to let them know how serious this story was. His glare was piercing enough to distract anyone from noticing the excess of gel in his hair and neatly combed mustache, and the small coffee stain on his brand new necktie.

          “Tonight,” the anchorwoman said, “marked the eighteenth attack from an unknown assailant, now in downtown New York. The police reports say that it’s possibly connected with the past four attacks. The fifth victim of these brutal assaults is currently hospitalized and recovering from seven stab wounds—”

          “Eight stab wounds,” the anchorman corrected. “The victim gave a brief description of the assailant. The person who ran up from behind during the victim’s nighttime walk was likely a man, dressed in a black hoodie with a bandana covering his face.”

          “Or her,” the anchorwoman replied.

          Silent for a second or two, the anchorman said, “Or her. The assailant was described as somewhere between five-five and five-nine…”

          Footsteps came from the bedroom. A woman emerged from the darkness just beyond the tv. She brushed her black hair away from her face, put her hand on her pudgy waist, and stared her thirty-year-old husband in the face. “George?”

          Silence. He didn’t seem to hear Lauren at all.

          “George?”

          “Hold on,” he replied. “In a minute.”

          She listened to the program, describing how like the other attacks, this one involved the use of a steak knife. “Is this that story about the stabber?”

          “Shh!”

          Lauren rolled her eyes.

          After a period of intense listening, George asked, “Do you think one of our friends might get attacked too?”

          “Do we have any friends in L.A.? I don’t think I do.”

          “L.A.? Honey, he’s attacking people in downtown New York! That’s only twenty minutes away from our apartment!”

          “But the last attack was in L.A. Aren’t you coming to bed?”

          Spending a second pondering, George wrung his bony hands, and stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?”

          “Pretty strange.”

          “Must get around awfully fast. Maybe he took a plane.” No, he thought, that wouldn’t make sense. The other reports talked about the victims’ wallets being missing, and if these assaults were really about money, this person probably couldn’t book a plane on such short notice. It was only a month and a half since the last attack was reported.

          “Well, shut that thing off, and come to bed already. We’re having brunch with my mother tomorrow morning, and we’re not going to be late.”

          “Shh!” George wasn’t looking at her, but concentrating on the story. He was resting his chin on his knuckles, looking at the pictures of the newest victim’s bandaged glutes.

          Lauren rolled her eyes again, and stomped back into the darkness. From within the void, she said, “Hurry up and turn that off.”

          George asked himself again, how could someone who stabs people and steal their wallets afford to fly across the country? Did he hitchhike the whole way? Possibly, but what benefit was there? New York was expensive to live in, just like L.A.

          Puzzling and pondering to himself some more, he turned off the television, and walked into the darkness toward his bedroom. He fondled the wall just to his left at first, searching for a light. No such luck. George figured his eyes would adjust anyway, but not after muttering an obscenity from walking straight into the bathroom door.

          He could’ve sworn the hallway was longer by at least a couple steps. He forgot about his stubbed big toe, turned left to the bedroom, and crawled into bed. There she was, ready for him to wrap his arms around her like any other night. The only problem was she obviously slept on her stomach tonight. There wasn’t nearly enough light to tell. All he could make out was a pudgy silhouette next to him, but the snoring was loud and clear.

          George tried to ignore it, and think about why the stabber attacked these people. What did he need the money for? The answers were as limitless as the sky itself. Even then, a lot of muggers didn’t actually hurt people, at least not too much. He imagined most of them made a threat, and ran off with the cash. The stabber probably could’ve done the same. He thought about how many wallets he might have ended up ruined by the steak knife. Did he attack first, and steal later? Or was it the opposite? He drift off to sleep with his loads of questions, let alone think of any answers. The snoring may as well have been a french horn in his ear. It was always that way, and never failed to wake him up on the few occasions where he faced this problem. The couch was his savior, calling him from the living room.

          Sure, it was smaller and had no Lauren, but the glow of the tv could keep him warm. Nothing stopped him from watching NNN until he fell asleep, especially since they had ‘round the clock stories. He got up, thinking his eyes were adjusted enough not to turn on a light, and awaken his sleeping wife. Leaving the bedroom, he closed the door slowly enough to where its creaking was like a whisper.

          Being careful this time, he turned the corner at the right number of steps, and saw the shape of the couch, waiting to embrace him. He was home free, until he walked into the coffee table and banged his shin. George muttered another obscenity, louder this time, and heard Lauren stop snoring. He was spotted.

          Facing the bedroom, he waited for something to happen. What it would’ve been, he had no idea, but it felt like he was a little boy sneaking out to the kitchen for a few cookies after being put to bed. The snoring began again.

          He turned on his cell phone’s internet after lying on the couch for half an hour of more news with the volume turned down and not being tired. Going on Facebook, there was his full name, and a picture of his face for all to see. He saw that one of the trending topics was, of course, the assailant. He looked at post after post: people crying for justice, requests for prayers, and even some declaring what they’d do to the stabber if only given the chance. These in particular had a pattern of saying to give the stabber a taste of his own medicine, and see how he liked it. Or was it she?

          He thought again about the assailant going across the country again. George couldn’t think of how it was doable for someone who paid the bills with stolen money, nor did he see anyone on social media bring it up. Why not him?

          George wrote his post, saying, “Isn’t it strange how the stabber managed to get across the country when he has to mug people on the street?” He tapped the button to post what was on his mind, and sealed his fate. Once he decided to turn off his phone, he realized how tired he was, and drifted off into unconscious bliss.

          When morning came, his wife had to wake him up, disappointed that he fell asleep in front of the television instead of coming to bed. As he sat up, a little sore here and there, she said, “You know, the bed’s probably more comfortable.”

          Throughout the brunch, he said little. All he had to do was make sure Lauren and her mother were talking, smile, and nod his head. A few years ago, just after he first married, he figured out this was all that was necessary to look involved. He pondered more about the stabber, unaware of what went on as a result of his post. Next to his words of possible doubt, or even worse, possible disrespect for the victims was everything about him. His full name, face, and hometown were on his profile for the entire world to see, including the people who knew he lived on West 45th Street. By the time George and Lauren got back, the get-together that was a few blocks down the street may as well have been a dinner too.

           Once night fell, on came the news again, and Lauren was gone at the store. He was on his spot at the couch, listened to a few stories with less attention than usual, since the stories were only the usual tonight.

           Give another month and a half, maybe two months, George thought. He’ll be back on the news again. He might be in another country this time, who knows?

          Glass shattered. A loud thump on his floor. He jumped up, looked over, and found a brick a few feet away from him. Three people in hoodies and wearing bandanas over their faces climbed through the window. He felt the rage beaming at him from their eyes as they ran toward him. Before he could reach the apartment door, they had him down on the floor, each of them now holding identical steak knives. One reached in his back pocket, and took his wallet as he kicked and thrashed.

          Another member of the trio whispered in his ear that now he’d understand what it was like to be the victim, since people like him only made the attacks even worse. Now it was only a short matter of time before his story was on the news.