LUCRETIA WAS ALL too aware of the fact that, at a time like this, she had to remain cool, calm, and collected. Practice complete and total composure. Thankfully, being precise and just so was so ingrained in her she did it automatically. It was like someone had set her on automatic pilot. The slightest mistake and there was always the possibility that, well. . .she didn't want to go there. There was absolutely no room for error.

She liked to think of herself as a trained professional. Even so, professional or not, there was some indescribable something about the risk factor, the foreplay. . .whatever the outcome. . .that gave her a rush like nothing else- -not booze, not drugs, not even sex.

Growing up she had learned the importance placed on appearance. Appearances were everything. But somewhere along the line she learned appearances could also be deceiving. Take now for instance. She knew no one could ever tell by her demeanor that she was, in reality, laughing. No sound escaped her lips. Her eyes might give a little something away, but she didn’t think so. Even her grin was well hidden. She had learned to channel these outward signs inward. Laughing, smiling, all could just as easily be internal as well as external. She had mastered the art of not-letting-anything-show.

Standing over the gentleman’s inert body--now just how could anyone determine if he were a gentleman or not?--with the well-honed knife in her carefully gloved hand, an old child’s song ran through her mind like a broken record. Over and over, "Old Mc Donald had a knife, ee-ie-ee-ie-oh. With a cut-cut here and a cut-cut there, here a cut, there a cut everywhere a cut-cut, ee-ie-ee-ie-oh."

Ah, but complete and total silence was called for. She’d have to be careful. It’d be so easy to start humming. For that matter, even singing. But who would ever know she had changed the words to the song?

Lucretia, poised over the body, gave another of her internal laughs. She would like to shout it from the mountain. Tell all those women out there who thought the fastest way to a man’s heart was through his stomach that they were full of donkey-dust. How shocked all those women would be if she told them the fastest way to a man’s heart was though his chest. . .with an extremely sharp knife.

She had always liked playing with knives. Early on she’d learned she had a knack for wielding a knife. She liked to think of this as a talent. Better yet, an art form, an art form she knew well, performed well and totally enjoyed. But most ordinary people either wouldn’t or couldn’t understand this. The only ones who could, were others who had trained themselves to handle a knife and to excel like she had. They knew. And, what did she care what other people thought anyway? She was among the chosen few, or the few who were chosen, depending on how you looked at it.

Looking down into eyes that stared up at her in absolute terror, she thought, ah, you poor thing. Why so afraid? Mama ain’t gonna hurt you. . .much. But the gentleman--her mind was still using the ‘gentlemen’ term loosely--just lay there terrified. Didn’t move a muscle. Couldn’t. She’d seen to that, and she’d also seen to the fact that he would remain fully aware of what was about to happen to him. No percentages in him not knowing, right?

Lucretia gave another one of her internal laughs as she thought just how ironic life is. Some women even paid her big bucks to do this to their significant others. Wonders never cease. But this one? This one was special. This one she would have done for free.

She was procrastinating, wasting precious time. She’d better get on with it. Leaning over, her face inches away for her victim?, she suppressed the impulse to wink at him. God, that’d turn him inside out. What’s this? She leaned closer. Was that a tear? Was he crying? Remorse now? Too late, Buddyo. Ah. . .more tears. Maybe she should wink after all. Really give him something to cry about. She thought, I bet he’s finally recognized me. Yes. I can see it in his eyes. He does. Good. Now he knows he really has a reason to be afraid.

The real irony was that this very special gentleman, that word again, was now at her mercy. Mr. Slick here, was none other than her ex-husband’s lawyer. God, she hated lawyers. Was there anything lower than these scum-bag, low-life, blood-suckers that bled a body out? She couldn’t think of a lower form of humanity. Lawyers were like leeches who not only sucked you dry financially, they sucked you dry emotionally. They were a necessary evil, true, and even when you used one and won your case you still lost, thanks to their ridiculous fees. And don’t forget, their expenses. You were the one who had to pick those up. O.J. was a prime example. He’d been living high on the hog. Now? Now he was lucky if he could afford. . . pigs’ feet. Who knows? Maybe, she gave one of the internal giggles, one day one of them would be saving her bacon. Now that was funny. She still maintained a sense of humor. Good.

For now, though, here she was, getting paid to cut up the man she hated almost as much as she hated her ex. Buddy Boy lawyer had been a friend. Ex-friend now, but this was back when she and what’s-his-name had been together. In true lizard like fashion, during the divorce proceeding, not one but, two lizards changed their colors. All this lawyer’s previous warm and fuzzy charm had gone out the window as he systematically went about hacking her up financially. No way was she going to feel any remorse over hacking him up. The Gods had been good to her when they gave her this opportunity. Placed him mere inches away from her knife’s nice sharp blade. This lousy, ex-friend lawyer of her ex-husband, this no good piece of humanity, had financially raped her during the divorce. Now? Now, he was about to get his.

True, to a certain degree, the rape had been her own fault. Like so many women she, being a dumb-bunny, had let them have whatever they asked for. All she had wanted was out of that god-forsaken marriage. What did she know? She’d never been divorced before. She had agreed to anything and everything they asked for. Did she want this guy under her knife to die? Oh, yeah. And as painfully as possible. Second and third scenarios darted through her mind. Each giving her an even better, more painful solution. And they all involved a combination of cutting out his tongue, cutting off his hands, and blinding him. If he couldn’t speak, couldn’t write and couldn’t blink. . he couldn’t finger her. Finger her? She’d just made another funny. Or, for that matter, he couldn’t sue her for the little she had left. They’d walked away with darn near everything that wasn’t nailed down. Ol’ buddy boy lawyer here, Mr. Slick, getting his pound of flesh out of the deal.

She just had another brilliant idea. She could perform just a wee, tiny little nick to his spinal cord. Serve him right if he were paralyzed. Nah. She preferred to see him squirm. Ah, yes, the numerous miracles one could perform when one knew how to wield a knife. Pay back time could be oh so sweet. Just thinking about it gave her a shiver of satisfaction.

But she was getting off track. Ethically, she was only supposed to do what she was paid to do. Still. . .looking at his chest she couldn’t help thinking how just a little bit lower and a little bit slower would bring her even greater satisfaction. Vindictive? You beat your ass.

Oh well, get on with it, Lucretia. She started to hum. "Old Mc Donald had a farm, ee-ie-ee-ie-oh. With a cut-cut her and a cut-cut there, here a cut, there a cut, everywhere a cut-cut, ee-ie-ee-ie-oh."

Something or someone was annoying her. Interfering with her concentration. She looked up and the fact that there were others in the room, standing around her in a circle, registered. She said, "Huh?" and a masked figure to her right leaned over and said, "Doctor, are you. . . singing?"

The End