Is There Anything Else I Can Do For You?
Genre: Humor -- About 900 Words
1The breading of fried chicken crumbles down from his mouth during another bite as Harry says “I need a room on October 24th.” Light from a computer is the only thing illuminating the room his landlord calls an apartment. It isn’t connected to the internet. The desk it sits on is the only piece of furniture he has.
The reservations agent on the other line types some stuff into his computer. Harry swallows the thigh and moves on to a breast. The agent gets some information from Harry – full name, email, phone number, credit card, stuff like that. Harry finishes the breast, moves on to a wing.
“Alright, I got that in for you,” the agent says over the phone. “I’ll go ahead and send a confirmation email. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Hoommm,” Harry feigns a thought, knowing the whole time he’s about to say, “you got a spare million dollars?”
There’s a pause on the other line. “You know what? Sure. Just for you.”
The agent hangs up. Harry immediately opens the app that tells him all the crap that’s in his bank account. The wing is gone, replaced with a leg that he gobbles down. He nibbles on a new wing, typing in his PIN. The app opens. One million dollars have been added to his account.
“Booyah,” he says. “Oooh, lah, lah.”
A rapid knocking startles him. He knows who – what - it is, what it must be. Harry munches and crunches the wing down as he approaches the door, peeking through the peep hole.
A man is outside, sunglasses disguising him, a business suit like a void blocking out his body. Above his heart a name tag reads TAX MAN. He’s looking around the sides of the house, pulls a file from his blazer. “Hello. I have some important tax documents for you. You could get a lot of money from a tax return opportunity.”
“Snibblers,” Harry mutters.
What was once a wing is now a collection of milk white bones sliding down Harry’s throat. He slides his hand down his pants to adjust the underwear riding up his crotch, dashes to the desk, takes a bonus leg out of the bucket and places that bucket under his armpit. He sneaks over to the back, peeks through the window.
More Snibblers are prowling around the back yard, looking under rocks for a spare key that they won’t find. Harry gasps. He goes to his computer, types the words “Snibblers at my door,” on his keyboard. He stares at the blank screen as the knocking returns.
The leg is gone. He pulls out another breast and chomps away at it as he pries up the floorboards. Knocking builds at his back door, his windows, each second getting louder as he opens a passage to the crawlspace. The windows rattle, the doors shake, and crashing booms through the place as he swallows the breast and leaps into the crawlspace. There’s no chicken left. He puts the bucket over his head to savor that sweet smell.
They’re in his home now. They clutch his legs, dragging him kicking and clawing out of the crawlspace. It takes two of them to restrain him, another removing the bucket from his head, revealing a dozen Snibblers in his home. He screams, breaks an arm free to reach after the bucket. Six of the intruders dogpile him.
“No!” he shouts.
“We have a tax deal for you,” Tax Man, likely the leader of the Snibblers, says.
“No deal!” Harry growls. “It’s mine, all mine.”
“That is not very nice,” Tax Man says. “You will find that this is a very generous deal.”
Harry has razors in his eyes, razors that cut through Tax Man and all the Snibblers. If only the blades were real.
“You can give us half of the one million dollars,” Tax Man offers, “or half of your soul.”
Harry looks around the place, crumbs spilling out of his hair. His bucket looks at him, cowering in a corner that the Snibblers tossed it in. “I want my bucket,” Harry pouts.
“You can have your bucket,” Tax Man says, “after we make a deal.”
Harry blinks at Tax Man. The Snibblers are all staring down at him. “Soul,” he says.
Tax Man leans in, turning his ears to Harry. “What was that?”
“Take half my soul,” Harry screams at him. “The million dollars is mine.”
Tax Man nods as if to say ‘very well,’ but there is no need for words anymore. He takes a contract and pen from his jacket, handing it to Harry. The Snibblers allow him to sign it.
Hell breaks loose. The rest of the Snibblers close in, join the others as they start snibbling all over Harry. He can’t help screaming. He thrashes at them, but the snibbling doesn’t cease. They snibble him vigorously, violently, ignoring his cries for mercy. Tears run down his face as he considers praying. He shouts for God, receiving no answers. He is tortured in these moments that feel like eternity, unsure if the snibbling will ever stop. He can’t fathom how it’s taking this long when there’s so many.
At once, they disappear.
Harry grabs his bucket, hugs it close to him.
His phone rings. Harry is about to answer it before it answers itself.
“Hello, Harry.” It’s the reservations agent. “What are you going to buy first with your million dollars?”
Harry looks at the empty space. He answers, “another bucket of chicken.”
Is There Anything Else I Can Do For You? was edited by Leah Eichler