Chapter 2

"You got the brains of a fucking sweat sock I swear," she said. Helen Handfuls was a mean-spirited lady. Helen wasn't a pretty woman, but she wasn't ugly either. She was about equal parts hobo lady and Cindy Crawford, and she had a smile that looked like Brad Pitt's that she rarely used except to invite salespeople or Jehovah's Witnesses into the house. She had big hands for a woman, too. Man hands, and they made hard fists. Just ask Harry. If anyone could run Harry down it was his wife Helen. She was strong-willed and intolerable to most people including her loved ones, but for some reason that I will reveal later in the story, Harry put up with it.

"You been drinking again," she said, "and by the looks of your hands fightin' too. What the hell's wrong with you, huh?"

Harry sat down on the couch. It was an old couch and had lots of stains on it, like from popcorn butter and chocolate and probably ejaculate too after Harry's nephew spent that week with them last summer and slept on the couch.

"Dear, you know I need to unwind after a hard day's work," he said.

"Hard day's work my fucking ass," she retorted. "What work? You're a fucking butcher for Christ's sake! Kiss my ass, work. Ha."

Harry shook his head. "I don't mean to be difficult dear, but you should try to cut hunk after hunk of meat day after day. All the blood and the meat and the fat and the cuts. It takes its toll on a person."

"Let me get the fucking baby a goddamn diaper," she screamed. "You pissbag. That's you, Harry, you're a stinkin' pissbag. You want to know what a real job is? I got a stack of fucking essays in there on the goddamned bed, and they're sure as shit not going to read themselves. By the time I get through with that shit, I'll be ready for a cyanide capsule and a shovel over the goddamn head. Got it?

"And another thing, I gotta stand up in front of a bunch of wisecracking eighth graders all goddamn day long and take their shit. You think that's fun, Harry? You think that's fun ballsack? Why don't you eat the scabby boogers in my fucking nose if you think that sounds like your cup of motherfucking tea you bastard? You gotta sit there and listen to your fucking easy fucking listening radio station while you slice goddamn filet off of a goddamn beef loin. Whoopty doo, ass scab!"

"You're right, dear," he said. They'd been through this hundreds of times before. Being an English teacher, in her eyes was simultaneously the most unrewarding job in the whole universe while also allowing her the ability to save the world from the plague of evils that were fighting for control. She saw herself as a cross between Mother Theresa and Rodney Dangerfield: doing good works, but getting no respect.

So, it's me again, the narrator. I should probably tell you that Harry Handfuls is not just a butcher. Oh yes, that's his front, but you have a lot more to learn about the life and times of this hardass. Harry's career is difficult to explain, and I will probably try to do it a little later in the story because I'm feeling kind of lazy right now, and I'm sure as hell not going to come back and revise this stuff. So, let's just say for now that Harry considers himself a freelancer. Now, you probably think that I mean assassin or hitman or some other cliche like that. Well, think again motherfucker! You're wrong. That ain't it at all. You'll just have to wait for the next chapter I guess.

Basically, Harry spent the night sitting in front of the television watching some bullshit reality shows or something and thinking about his taxes and who he might vote for in the upcoming election. Helen had goddamn essays to grade so she basically just emerged from the bedroom every hour or so to remind him that he was a worthless piece of scum and to refill her glass of Arbor Mist.

Just as Harry was about to doze off in his easy chair, the phone rang. He had a boner. He answered the phone. A man's voice was on the line. His voice was smooth and intelligent. Like a well-read stick of butter or a William Faulkner description of warm cream.

"Is this Harry Handfuls?" the man asked.

"Yes, it is," Harry said. His eyes probably like sharpened, and if you don't mind, try to imagine that Harry has some kind of like wrinkles or something around his eyes to help depict his age.

"I need to place an order," the man said. He was hell of serious.

"How did you get my number?" Harry asked. It was a standard question. A script. He asked it of all his customers, if they were first timers or old regulars.

"A friend," the man answered.

"And what's the code?" Harry asked.

"Vortex," the man answered.

"Okay," Harry said. "What can I do for you?"