Meatnik

“Neatnik. That’s what Momma liked to call me. Not Beatnik, but Neatnik. She was the beatnik, and I was the neatnik. Of course living with a first rate slob can lead to over-compensation, but my God, cigarettes, half empty beer cans, chicken bones, food wrappers, not to mention your more-personal sexual artifacts like used tissues and condoms from any number of sources…well, I guess you can tell where I got it. I wouldn’t leave a trace…sometimes scrubbing walls or pulling pubic hairs and marijuana seeds from the carpet with tweezers until late into the night or into the next day. Only to have her drag another unsuspecting pecker…some unseemly weenie… home to muss up the place and spread disease. Sometimes they’d even comment on how tidy the place was…thanks a lot, muthafuckers!

DNA can be a problem but Neatniks , by nature, tend to leave sparse trace evidence, at least this Neatnik, and as you can tell, cleaning up is just in my blood. Plastic sheeting is a must; simple disposable painters drop cloths draped over an area, be it a bed, a car seat,  a motel room…can be a big help in limiting the spread of evidence, and once the business is complete it’s just ‘wrap-up the whole kit – and – caboodle’ rinse it all off in the shower with bleach and water. If not available, just drench it all with plain old grocery store bleach, then tape it up and dispose. Total investment something under twelve dollars. Not bad. Oh yes, and gloves are a must. Latex surgical gloves for the finer feel of flesh, but thick kitchen gloves will be necessary for your messier work. I have been known to shave my body for special occasions, not just this bald head you see here, but all over. Thankfully the scar tissue is not capable of growing hair, and that’s a help. Shaving one’s body can be very sensual and I have several girlfriends who will attest to the fact. Although most of my regular girlfriends are not especially anything to write home about – if I had a home - but they do provide me a place to rest and recuperate, and try mightily to satisfy my cravings (which is not even possible!) while on my travels.

Come to think of it, the only time I did not clean up my own mess, and this was not easy for me, but it was necessary, was when I had to put Momma down. The reason being Uncle Phil. Uncle Phil is still serving out his days right up the road in prison here at the State Pen. I like to drive by and give him a honk, hoping he’ll know it’s me somehow and admit to how smart I was to set him up. No problemo there, amigo. DNA everywhere – his semen inside my Mom – and his bite marks on her thigh, him passed out on the sofa while smokin’ hash, and her naked in bed, head crushed with my bat, blood everywhere, and this poor baby boy running screaming through the streets at three AM, yellin’ ‘He killed my Momma. He killed my Momma…”  The poor son-bitch wasn’t even sure he didn’t do it and the DA didn’t break a sweat puttin’ him away and neither did the jury, and the whole town felt right sorry for the poor baby boy left behind. Ha! Had me a fun time in high school, learned a lot, lived with a foster family, the Ruhls, then moved out upon graduation, joined the Navy, learned computers and paid them back every cent they ever spent on me, and then some. They both gone now. Had to do it. Mrs. Ruhl was asking questions I didn’t like – I think maybe she suspected from the get-go. Well, in the end you know what they say? The Ruhls were meant to be broken. Ha! As it turns out, I’m still breakin’ em.