A Mixed Bag of Blood by David Bernstein

disgustedly.
    Using the bionic grip, Dilinger tossed the mangled blade into the trash before dragging the cans to the curb. Thank goodness garbage day was tomorrow.
    The next evening, while Dilinger and Virginia slept soundly in bed, a man dressed in sanitation garb broke into their home and killed them, but not before they were soaked in lighter fluid and ignited.
    After putting the fire out, the man bludgeoned them to within an inch of their lives, smashing their arms and legs with a sledge hammer. They died hours later, the pain unbearable.
    A few days later the sanitation worker was arrested and convicted for the murders, his finger prints everywhere. When asked why he did it, he said, “The knife wanted revenge and it made me do it.” He was sentenced to life in prison.
    The knife is still at large.

 
     
     
    Potty Mouth
     
     
    Peter had been a badly behaved young man. A real potty mouth. His mother warned him repeatedly not to swear, but Peter—now eighteen years old—refused to listen.
    “I’m eighteen,” he told his mother. “I’m an adult and you can’t tell me what to do or how to act.” He crossed his arms, defiantly adding, “and I can fucking swear any fucking time I wish.”
    “As long as you live under my roof," she said, red-faced from anger, "you’ll follow my rules."
    “Fuck that, bitch!” he hollered and gave her the middle finger before storming out of the house.
    Marla had been raising Peter alone since Fred, Peter’s father, left them. She’d felt badly for the boy, often giving him more leeway than normal. But she’d had enough. He was a rotten, spoiled son-of-a-gun. She needed to teach him a lesson he’d not soon forget. It was time for harsh punishment, like her parents had done to her. Something that had made her learn her lesson.
    She thought for a while at the kitchen table as she sipped her English tea. Her parents had used an assortment of spells and curses to teach their lessons, and so would she. An idea finally came to her. He likes being a potty mouth , she thought, then he’ll get to see what a real potty feels like.
    Later that evening, around two a.m. while Peter slept soundly in his bed, Marla went to the basement and sifted through her spell books. Her eyes lit up when she found the enchantment she needed.
    After mixing the proper ingredients, having them all at her disposal, she crept upstairs to her son’s bedroom.
    Standing over him while he snored loudly, she performed the spell quietly, and poured the magical brew over his person.
    Within minutes, his body began to disperse into a mist-like substance. Using a Container of Holding, Marla was able to gather her son’s particles together, keeping them securely locked away.
    Next, she traveled in her Station Wagon with Peter's particles on the seat next to her in the magical container to a remote rest stop in the middle of the Nevada desert. Marla felt as if she’d been transported back in time to the 1970’s. The lot wasn’t paved, allowing a whirlwind of dust to kick up when she pulled in. The gas pumps had old flip numbers instead of a digital readout. The sign naming the establishment was unreadable and hung from a long rusted pole faded by years of harsh sunlight. Old forgotten cars, relics now, sat on either side of the establishment like a pile of human corpses at a mass grave before burial. Marla thought the place was perfect.
    She entered the store, bells ringing annoyingly against the glass, and asked to use the restroom. The clerk, an elderly man with thick lenses that made his pupils appear like pin-holes, and a ring of puffy white hair around his bald, age-spotted head, handed her the key. Marla held it up, admiring the attached two-foot piece of graffiti ridden two-by-four block of wood.
    “Don’t run off with that,” the clerk told her.
    She needed the men’s room key. Women could be nasty, messy things, but when it came to the punishment, she wanted Peter to be in the men’s room.
    She