Ngam-Chit hummed Beyoncé’s Best Thing I Never Had as she worked. While she did not understand the lyrics, she had committed them, as well as some other hundred American melodies, to memory.
As she began on the corpse’s left arm with renewed vigor, she reached, You don’t deserve my tears. She sawed in rhythm to the beat, and when she reached, I’m so through with that, the arm came loose, and she tore the last spindles of flesh that kept the body whole.
The alley was cast in black. From the cars that occasionally passed, Ngam-Chit could see the mounds of trash that flanked the walls: soiled newspapers and utensils, torn clothing and worn shoes, and discarded foodstuff neglected even by the starving dogs and goats that wandered Nakhon Sawan at all hours of the day.
The trash served as a wonderful compliment to the spray of red life that painted the alley walls. While Ngam-Chit made a point of not recognizing who she worked on, the feral tiger she had found on the man’s left shoulder meant that he was one of the Tat Mok Nam Nao, who commanded much of the city’s heroin and cocaine trafficking.
“Cause honestly you turned out to be the,” Ngam-Chit sang in a hushed whisper, “Best thing I never had.”
She hefted the thick arm into a Glad trash bag. Everything that America made was remarkable, as befit the greatest country in the entire world. They produced the best music, the best pornography, the best food, the best handguns, and, of course, the best trash bags. It was hard enough to find them in Nakhon Sawan. If not for the American, Ngam-Chit suspected she would have been forced to use one of the trash bag trash bags that they sold in the market. No brand!
Looking over the five bags that were huddled around the corpse, Ngam-Chit nodded to herself, satisfied. She was done.
“Oh baby I bet sucks to be you right now,” she hummed as she rose from the pool of red that had formed about the corpse and now clung to her own form. She would leave the torso here in the alley, as per instruction.
“Aiya,” Ngam-Chit exclaimed as she prepared herself mentally for what came next. If the pay was not so good, she would never have accepted. She hated busy-work like this.
She carried the five bags some distance from the corpse to where the stain of the red was no more than a stain of shit-brown. She shed her full-body suit of Glad trash bags and discarded them in another.
Underneath her work clothes she wore a dark blue t-shirt with NYPD written across the front. She had bought it from the American for 20,000 THB. The t-shirt had supposedly belonged to a police officer the American had killed in the greatest city of the greatest country in the world: New York.
The shirt was her most prized possession, and Ngam-Chit was convinced it brought her good luck. She had dodged death many a times while wearing it. The risk of staining it with blood was acceptable.
Exhausted, but committed to her work, she took out her phone and sent Sunan a text.
done with the kitty cat