The Strange Incident of Stanley Bad – Episode 1.

Stanley Bad‘s body was found in the early hours of Tuesday morning, he was naked accept for a pair of beaten up old “pimp” shoes. He had a huge slit through his stomach and his guts had been partially ripped out. A hand written note left in his right hand read “Love Lynda”. Around the rim of each fingernail was the remains of cherry red nail varnish that had been hastily removed. It was known that Stanley had been a transvestite during his twenties but friends claimed this had been an experimental phase he had long since given up. To the best of his housemates’ knowledge Stanley had gone to bed complaining of a headache at 10.30 on the night of the incident.

Witness No.1 – Yes I knew Stanley reasonably well, as well as you could know Stanley. He was a bit of an awkward bugger, seemed to get pleasure out of causing distress to others. Nothing major, just spiteful annoying things, but yes I imagine he had quite a few people who really disliked him. Wouldn’t have thought enough to do this to him though. Lynda? No I didn’t know he was seeing anyone called Lydna. Funny way to spell it. Strange.., his alter ego back in his college days was called Lynda, Lynda Beast, he used to spell it that way because it was an anagram of his own name.

The Third Breast – an unpleasant story of wasted milk

Image of a woman with a third breast and a bread knife.
Woman with a third breast and a bread knife.

I grew a third breast the other night. Just under my right breast. It swelled up and started to weep. White fluid dribbled down the sides and left a flaky dry film around the base.

“Woe is me” it said, for it could speak, “I was once a full person, but you have cursed me, humiliated and confused me so much that I am now merely your third breast”

I tried to ignore it but it carried on:

” So now I sit on your chest, the evidence of your evil, when all I wanted was for you to be a good person”

“A good person?” I say ” you mean a dull half -a- person. You didn’t have the guts to live a full life, and you were trying to waste my life along with yours. No wonder you’re just a breast now, you were weak and don’t deserve a body!”

“If you’d just take your tablets” it beggs, “then we’d be alright”

“Alright? By that you mean half asleep,  a slow dump imbercile! Controllable, predictable, tame and pathetic!”

It was silent but carried on weeping. A waste of milk.

What was I to do about this lump on my body. It wouldn’t stop whining, it wouldn’t stop dribbling. What an embarrassment!

It was 5 in the morning now. I couldn’t get back to sleep. Slowly I got out of bed and reached down to the satin dressing gown I’d flung across the floor last night.  I was careful not to catch a glimpse of my naked body in the full length mirror. Perhaps the thing would fade away in a while if I ignored it. But within no time there was a large damp patch on my right side and warm fluid running down my flesh. As I moved into the kitchen, the intention being to make myself a calming cup of tea, the smell of stale milk arose from beneath the dressing gown. What could I do? I had no choice.

A knife was required. I found my large bread knife in the kitchen sink, rinsed it off and wiped it down. I wasn’t sure how much this would hurt me, I imagined a lot. A minute or so went by as I stopped to consider my action. The breast didn’t relise what I was intending, it was still hidden under the dressing gown, and besides it had no eyes as far as I could see. Admittedly I hadn’t inspected it much, I was too appalled by the sight of it to poke around.

Perhaps, I thought, knife clutched in one hand, dressing gown clasped tight together in the other, perhaps I could remove it some other way. Ease it off somehow, like butter off a plate on a warm day. Or talk it into disappearing. Surely it realized how unreasonable it was being? Here I am  ripe, flourishing, near the very peak of my existence yet with so much more potential, I cannot be expected to put up with this third breast. This vulgar personality haunting my every move. If only I could reason with it, make it see how it should cease to exist under the superiority of ME.

Slowly I open the dressing gown and looked down. Like Dorian Gray at the moment he sees his portrait I am confronted by a hideous version of myself, my body transformed, mutated around this third breast. It sits there near the middle saying nothing, just oozing milk.

I raise the knife tight in my left hand, grasp the third breast hard in my right, and with a half growl half scream I force the knife through my flesh and down through the third breast. The pain is horrific, blood and milk race each other across my limbs. I feel sick. The breast is hanging now from a thread of skin. I take a deep breath and saw through the thread with the bread knife. It falls as a lump of fresh cut meat to the floor. I slump down next to it in a puddle of blood mixed milk.

What now?

The breast is still just about alive, it is making very quiet gurgling noises and every now and then it quivers. Using a tea towel I pick it up and place it on a clean plate. I place the tea towel over the top of it. The fridge is close to me. I open it. There is space in the plastic draw in the bottom. I clear out the remaining old vegetables and place the breast on its plate inside the plastic draw. I leave the tea towel on top. Close the draw carefully and then the fridge door. Very very quietly I mop the floor with my other tea towel, throw it in the bin, then creep back to bed. I sleep very deeply and do not dream.

Since that morning I do not dare look in the plastic draw in the fridge. Occasionally I hear noises coming from it. I know the breast is still alive, but only just, it can’t harm me now.

I call it Jo.