STORY: The Pesticide Mixer

The idea of this story came from a misreading of another story by Billie Sue Mosiman. I decided to take the screw-up and use it in one of my stories. The idea of having Dane be a pesticide mixer came from a murder case - I don't know if it was real or not, but I learned about it in biology class.

Dane's son Elijah hated him.

Dane's wife and Elijah's mother Lenore left him three years ago. She was the one who worked. Dane was the slacker who basically raised Elijah.

Lenore knew about Dane's hobby but probably didn't care. Anyway, it probably wasn't why she left him. If that was the reason, then why did she leave the boy with him? It was more likely she wanted normalcy. She wanted to believe in a clean, sterile world where people like Dane did not exist.

Dane was a pesticide mixer. He had always suspected being near those toxic chemicals had screwed him up. They had given him the power or the desire to kill, or maybe both. Maybe Dane had already had them and the pesticides amplified them. One thing was for sure: they were to blame. In some way, at least.

Dane's boss, Blakelock, approached him one day while Dane was carrying a small white tank to a truck. Blakelock had a penchant for nasty cologne and was far too tall. Dane was consistently annoyed by him, but not enough to kill him. And if Dane killed him, the company would let some other asshole take his place. Sure, Dane could kill the assholes, then take care of Blakelock, but that would look too suspicious.

"Mr. Mak," Blakelock said, trying to sound overly professional. "Did you know my wife, Rochelle?"

"No, I didn't." Dane set the tank down on the pavement and mentally rolled his eyes. Blakelock jabbered about Rochelle so much that Dane and the other pesticide mixers suspected she was a trophy wife. "You talked about her a lot. I guess you really loved her."

"You're talking in the past tense," Blakelock said. "I guess you found out."

"I'm sorry?" Dane tried to keep his cool. He knew he was being accused.

Blakelock cleared his throat. "I'll talk to you later, Mr. Mak. I have to leave now. You can have the rest of the day off. By the way, how is your wife?"

Fury. Blind, red fury. Dane twisted the top of the tank off, threw the top aside, and kicked the tank to the ground. An angry-smelling chemical frantically spilled in the grass.

"I quit," Dane said, and he drove home. As he drove, he plotted how Blakelock would die. That was Dane's power: he could cause people's deaths. He made people shoot themselves in the gut and wander onto highways. He made brakes faulty and he made houses burn.

When he pulled into his driveway, all the details had been planned. It was like placing the final piece inside a jigsaw puzzle. Beautiful! He walked inside. Elijah was glaring at a cellphone on the kitchen table; he mumbled a greeting, and Dane made dinner for him. Then Dane went to bed, grinning as he faded into a dark dreamscape.