by Anna Hood
When the moon was dark he'd watch the house.
But not alone. The Voice was there, singing his theme song, "Macho Macho-Man, you need to be a Macho-man."
Frannie, the chosen one, lived in that house.
Macho-Man knew her every move: Knew she wore black panties, that she liked Colgate toothpaste, that her favourite colour was green.
He knew her brand of tampons.
Mornings he'd watch her leave, then glide inside, the song pounding, pounding. Macho-Man.
He'd touch her things, her soiled panties. Sometimes he'd put them in his mouth. Then he'd remove his clothes, get into her bed, the essence of him hissing onto her sheets.
The Voice, whispering, "Soon Macho. Soon."
Saturday night: Macho was watching when The Voice spoke. "Now."
Macho-Man slithered inside, sniffing, taking Frannie's spoor inside his mouth, rolling it around his tongue while he removed his clothes. His shadow, naked and grinning, cavorting to his music.
He paused now and then to strike a pose. Macho-Man! Photographs with paper teeth smiled inside paper lips, showed their approval as he slid into her darkened room.
He waited 'til her eyes opened, 'til she saw him, holding his silver lipped knife.
Watched her eyes as he poked with his sharp tip.
Watched his reflection in her eyes.
Then: Harder! Harder! Twisting! Slashing! Stabbing!
Her body a thousand fountains. Scarlet on his face. Scarlet on his tongue.
And when the fountains ceased spraying, ceased bubbling, he raised two terrible arms into the air.
Strike a pose Macho-Man.