Trembling With Fear 10/20/2019

Anchovy Whispers by Kevin M. Folliard

When I open my bedroom door, the stink of Mitch hits me like a right hook. My roommate stayed up all night—like every night—generating a stench that would offend the Duke of Bumsville.

Three months ago, that slob moved in. Three months ago, he took over.

The Mitch stink is a hurricane of body odor, discarded gym socks, cigarette butts festering in a lidless kitchen trashcan, and a special ingredient—3 leftover slices of Savvy Sicilian anchovy and garlic pizza. In the small hours, drunk on Evan Williams, Mitch orders this pizza like clockwork. It pushes the stench into strange new territories, infusing the air with a salty, pungent kick of spoiling fish.

Mitch never falls asleep in his own room—a hoarder’s den of unpacked boxes and heaps of soiled laundry. He passes out to infomercials on the living room sofa. By now his rankness has soaked into the upholstery.

There he lays now, lawnmower snore thundering from bristly nostrils. Drool runs down his grizzled chin.

“Mitch!” I shout. “Mitch!”

He reaches, exposes the gold pit stain of his undershirt, scratches himself, grunts, and resumes his snoring. 

I open my mouth to shout again, but stop myself. Completely hammered like this, he could sleep through a marching band.

I scowl at the grease-stained cardboard box on the kitchen counter, where the usual 3 slices of thick crust garlic anchovy fester at room temperature. The cheese has congealed to hardened slime. Gray-brown fish cling to it like waxy leeches.

Bile creeps up my throat. I struggle to keep it down.

Mitch’s snores rumble like a volcano. A wet belch erupts.

And crimson hell-scape filters over the shitstorm that has become my home.

“PSST! Kenny!” a voice whispers. “Hey, Kenny!” 

It couldn’t be Mitch who continues to snooze.

“Kenny, what’s with this guy?” The voice is slick as oil.

My eyes gravitate to the countertop. One brown anchovy wriggles on cold pizza, worming its headless body at me.

The anchovy whispers, “There’s foil and plastic wrap in the drawer, right?”

A second fish slides upright. “He could have packed us up in the fridge for lunch today. It would have only taken 30 seconds.”

An anchovy half, sliced between two triangles, slithers upright. “Because of him, we’ve been spoiling all night. We’re no good. Just like that fat slob Mitch. He didn’t even use a plate.”

“He never uses a plate!” I say. “He never cleans. Hasn’t washed a single dish.”

A susurrus of disapproving whispers floats from the box. More anchovies poke up, headless, slug-like bodies undulating. “What a pig!” “Complete idiot!” “Who would put up with this?”

The biggest, fattest anchovy snakes and flops onto the cardboard. It rears up. “We’re dead fish, cooked on a pizza, and we’re offended. How do you deal with this, Kenny?”

“I-I don’t know.” I struggle for breath, choke on the rot in the air. “He doesn’t even shower! It’s disgusting—it’s—”

“Kenny,” the fat fish states, slick as a card shark. “You gotta fix this.”

“I’ve tried! I told him a hundred times—”

“That meathead has the IQ of a sledgehammer,” the fat one says. “And the breath of an elephant seal.” The chorus of anchovies erupts into scratchy snickers. “What makes you think a guy like that can be taught basic hygiene?”

“Enough words, man,” another anchovy hisses. “It’s time for action.”

“He has no job!” I say. “He can’t keep making up his half of the rent. Sooner or later—”

“You spineless jelly!” an anchovy snaps. “Stop making excuses. Problems like Mitch don’t go away on their own. They need to be solved. Taken care of.”

Mitch snorts, scratches his thigh.

I gag on putrid oniony air.

Greased laughter erupts from the box. “He’s not going to run out of money, Ken.” “One of his lady friends loaned him 200 dollars last night.” “His sugar momma gave him 500 last week. He didn’t even wash his hands before he ate after counting all that cash.”

“No . . .”

“His parents emailed last night too: They’re wiring him enough to support him until he gets that big break.” The anchovies hissed with laughter. “Mitch is slippery like us.” “He greases his palms while doing as little as possible.” “He’ll coast, he’ll slip—he’ll slide—for at least another year.”

“No.” My eyes water. My stomach churns. I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt and approach the reeking, wriggling brown fish. “What do you know? You’re dead fish!”

“We know why guys like Mitch move in with guys like you, Kenny-boy.” The fat one’s neck scrunches with each syllable. “It’s because he knows you’re spineless. He can smell it from miles away.”

I shake my head. Tears burn my eyes.

“You’ll move out before you force him out.”

“Not true,” I whisper.

“Prove it,” the fat one says. 

Its pals snigger. 

“Get rid of him.”

My eyes travel from the thundering, snoring wreck on the couch, back to the grease-stained cardboard.

The fat anchovy slops forward and slithers onto the counter. It inches toward a pizza-stained butcher knife and taps the handle.

“Go on,” it whispers. “You’ll be the one cleaning this knife either way.”

“You’ll be sterilizing the whole place one way or another—” one anchovy whispers.

“—what’s a little blood?” the others finish.

The stench is overpowering now, searing my nostrils, numbing my brain, like I’m breathing sour paint-thinner.

“Don’t puss out, Ken.” The fat anchovy taps the knife. “We could have been leftovers. Now look at us.” “Every day you wake up to this.” “Mitch must pay.”

“He will.” I reach for the knife. The fat anchovy swirls back toward the box. “Do it,” they all whisper. “Do it!”

I grab the handle. Crusty sauce and strings of mozzarella cling to the soiled blade.

“Do it!” 

“Do it!” 

“Do it!” 

“Do it!”

Mitch snorts and snores.

I enter the living room.

The anchovies laugh as I tilt the blade toward Mitch’s swollen gut.

My hands shake. The knife trembles. My eyes swelter from Mitch’s rankness. “I-I can’t . . .”

“It’s okay, Kenny,” comes a hoarse whisper from the carpet. A half-eaten anchovy clings to a dropped crust, amid a sprinkling of crumbs. It tilts up. “I have a better idea. Easier. Safer. You won’t even have to watch.”

The carpet anchovy points one slick end toward a silvery rectangle with a greasy fingerprint. It’s Mitch’s lighter, dropped on the ground.

I study the slumbering behemoth. A white cigarette, unsmoked, lies nestled between the couch cushions at Mitch’s side. Fury pumps through my veins.

“Hey almost did it,” the carpet anchovy whispers. “For real! He was seconds from lighting up. He would have killed you.”

“Son of a bitch.” I grit my teeth.

“But who’s to say when or why he did it. Maybe you woke up this morning and Mitch was still awake, drunk out of his mind.” 

“And maybe you left for work,” whisper the kitchen anchovies.

“And maybe then he lit up,” the fat one says, “one more time . . .”

They all laugh. “You’ve got renter’s insurance, Kenny, don’t you?” “All your neighbors have jobs. They’re in no danger. They’re already out the door.”

Mitch snorts. Grunts. Rumbles.

“Think how fast he’ll burn up with all that whiskey in his blood,” the carpet anchovy says. 

I pick up Mitch’s lighter, metal greasy to the touch. I flick it, and a plume of blue flame dances. I can feel the heat, burning away the hideous particles in the air. The bits and pieces of Mitch poisoning everything. 

“Fire,” the anchovies chant. “Purifying fire.” “He has no prospects, Ken.” “None at all.”

I smile. “It’d be crueler to let him live.”