thrill kill cult

Of course, I never thought I'd be part of what you might call a "thrill-kill cult." But, despite my good intentions, that all changed the night of Amy's mullet party.

Sipping grape juice and shoveling forkfuls of jambalaya into my hungry mouth, I sat against a background of rain-flecked porch screen. Between sips and bites, I warmed my hands over the dura-flame fire. Cool, damp night air encroached onto the small porch while I told Phillip about my life with the thrill-kill cult.

"No, Amy. I don't think it's a good idea to have a mullet party, considering what happened last time. I mean, I realize that he was homeless and everything, but I think it sort of got out of hand, don't you think?"

Amy nodded and looked circumspect. Phillip's gaze shifted from her to me. He wasn't sure what to think.

"I mean, Phillip, I'm no expert, but I think that even though somebody's homeless and everything, they still have a soul, right? I mean, they're still a PERSON, wouldn't you say? Even though he was homeless, I really don't think we should've gone through with it. It was messy. And it wasn't a good idea -- we could've gotten caught that time."

Amy nodded again and matter-of-factly chirped, "Jeffrey killed 'em and dumped the body in the Potomac!" She must've hidden her grin with a sip of the margarita, because I didn't see her smile once during this interchange.

Phillip, the soft-spoken University of Charlottesville professor, looked like he was trying to figure out whether we were telling the truth or not.

"Life," I explained to him, punctuating my philosophy with sips of my grape juice, "is not like 'Murder she Wrote.' There are no neat little endings with clever puns related to the victim's occupation.

"That shrivled up Geritol slut ain't gonna pop up in her smart-fitting trench coat and uncover the clues I've unintentionally sprinkled along my path for her. And she's not gonna indict my every misdeed with tongue-in-cheek humor or dancing penguins!"

"No -- the dancing penguins were on Mary Poppins," Amy corrected.

"Mary Poppins can't solve my murder of a homeless crack-head, Amy! What are you talkin' about?"

"You're confusing 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks' with 'Mary Poppins. It's an easy mistake to make since --'

"Well regardless of my Disney mix-up, Amy," I interrupted, waving my drink at her dismissively, "That red-headed hussy isn't going to find out what happened; we plied him with malt liquor so that it would look like he died of drink-and-drowning. And I think that's illegal in the District!" I laughed at my macabre little joke. "But that's what life with the thrill-kill cult is all about: the joy of freeing someone from their suffering. See," and I paused here for effect, "Buddha taught us that all life is suffering, so ending someone's life is the only way to stop that suffering. If that person's enlightened, then the cycle can end. Otherwise, they're just going to plunge down the waterslide of Life headfirst again."

Sadly, at this point, Phillip excused himself to go fetch another drink. He didn't offer to get us anything. Guess our little ruse worked. He'd left. We had the warm fireside to ourselves. Amy and I held up our hands toward the Dura-flame fire and giggled. It was a lovely way to spend a Saturday evening, recalling with Amy my wild life with the thrill-kill cult.