Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers (A Sadie Novella) Version: Twisted

By Zané Sachs

Sadie may seem like the typical girl next door—except she isn’t. At age eight, when she finds Mommy in the bathtub, floating in a pool of blood, Sadie becomes obsessed with murder. Sadie’s Guide to Catching Killers is the prekill to Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror, delving into Sadie’s bizarre childhood to unravel what makes her the psycho we know and love. The story you’ve got in your hot little hands (unless you’re holding something else) is a twisted coming-of-age story, Black Humor/Horror. BONUS: Advice from L’il Sadie : 10 Signs Someone is a Low-Life Liar; 10 Ways to Your Dream Confession; 10 Useful Household Poisons, and more!

Note: This is the (slightly) cut version of the novella. Even so, please expect sexuality, insanity, and other disturbing content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Tyrpak
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310271939

Zané Sachs

Zané Sachs has worked for several large corporations (including a supermarket), and those situations have, in part, inspired Sadie the Sadist. Sadly, she has found, that the current work environment in the U.S. often treats workers as expendable units, comparable to robots. Every day automated systems and machines are replacing human workers. Zané expects to be replaced by a robot any minute. Perhaps, one day soon, the perfect novel will be written by artificial intelligence. Until then, Zané offers you her flawed perspective and hopes you find it entertaining. Zané is currently writing a novel of psychological suspense called Jayne Just Watches. Jayne believes that she is dead, and she happens to be Sadie’s neighbor. She is also working on a prequel to Sadie the Sadist, a novella titled Sadie’s Guide to Catching Killers. For Sadie’s deadly recipes, guest inQuistions, and useful tips on topics like the Pros and Cons of killing your boss, please visit Zané’s blog, Zané Sachs-Going Down, at ZaneSachs.com

Book preview

Introduction

Perhaps you met Sadie in my book, Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror. This novella is a prekill to that story, and it explores Sadie’s childhood from age eight to seventeen. It’s a twisted tale, and hopefully you’ll find it darkly humorous.

Although this is a work of fiction, many children in this world suffer unspeakable abuse, mental and physical. That is truly horrifying. Marks left by fear and hate may be invisible to the eye, but the damage they cause can be severe. Wounds inflicted by uncaring words, unbridled anger, another person’s unhealed hurts, affect children and their children’s children, echoing like a tortured scream through generations.

Although this story contains black humor, and I wrote it to entertain you, I hope it casts some light on the despair many children suffer.

Murder One

(1991)

My study of murder began in third grade, three days after Thanksgiving, when my father offed my mother.

You might think committing the perfect murder requires practice, technique, thought. Daddy’s one skill is dumb luck. He’s a lousy criminal. Sloppy. Lazy. But, because Mommy took lots of pills (diagnosed bipolar), the cops called her death suicide.

I found her in the bathtub floating in a pool of blood.

I don’t think it affected me.

Not really.

I closed the bathroom door, went into the kitchen to make a turkey sandwich, then I turned on the TV. Not a flat screen. Back in 1991, when I was eight years old, we had a console full of toxic tubes spewing radiation into our living room.

Sometimes I feel like I’m back there, even though I’m all grown up and live far, far away. I’m from New York. Not the city, Long Island. A long strip of land in the Atlantic—takes three hours to drive from one end to the other, changing from urban to rural until you reach the points, Montauk and Orient. Then you fall into the ocean.

Too bad I couldn’t drive when I was eight.

Our town is too far from the city to be called a suburb and not fancy like the Hamptons. This town is blue-collar, hard-working people who provide services to the rich and famous, and a few stray farmers holding out against developers. Our house looks pretty much like every other on Maple Street. The lawn is tidy, the front porch neat, windows so polished birds fly into the glass then drop dead.

I bury them in the backyard with the other bodies.

Most Sundays Mommy and I get up early and go to church, while Daddy and my little brother stay at home. After church, Mommy makes a giganto lunch, and I help.

Not today.

Today we didn’t eat, because Mommy and Daddy had a fight. (They yell a lot.) Then Mommy had a headache, and she told me to get her pills.

Now the house is quiet, like it should be.

My teacher at church says Sunday is a day of rest, but most Sunday afternoons Mommy gives me chores: cleaning toilets, using a toothbrush to scrub between tiles, vacuuming dead flies that get caught between the windows and the screens.

Today I don’t have to do anything, because Mommy’s in the bathtub.

I climb onto the plush beige couch (our house is beige; the furniture, the walls, the carpet), rest my head on a beige cushion, and kick off my sneakers (hot pink Revs with zebra inserts—rad). Usually, I’d untie the laces, carefully remove my shoes and arrange them side-by-side on the mat by the front door, the way Mommy taught me, but now I let them tumble from my feet and land where they will.

I take a bite of sandwich, set it on my stomach.

Mommy would tell me to use a plate, call me a slob like my father.

Donnie, my little brother, comes into the living room, carrying his kitten and practically strangling it. He grins at me, displaying the gap in his front teeth. He’s still wearing pajamas, and a smudge of grape jelly stains the bright green brontosaurus on his chest.

Is Mommy taking a nap?

Uh-huh.

She’s not in her bed.

In the bathroom. Don’t go in there.

The kitten squirms in Donnie’s arms, revealing its tiny balls. I guess I should call it a him.

What you want Santa to bring you, Sadie?

A chainsaw, like Daddy’s.

I don’t know.

I want a Cabbage Patch Birthday Kid with brown hair, Donnie says.

Boys don’t get dolls.

Why not?

They just don’t, dummy.

Donnie sticks his thumb between his lips and sucks. If Mommy were around she’d tell him to take that thing out of his mouth, tell him she was gonna smear his thumb with mustard and eat it like a hotdog.

I want a red BMX bike, I say.

Donnie stops sucking his thumb long enough to say, "That’s really dumb."

Not as dumb as you.

I grab the remote and amp up the TV’s volume, so I can hear the evil king, Zarkon, ruler of the planet Doom, vowing to destroy Voltron’s lion robots.

The kitten escapes Donnie’s stranglehold, hops onto the couch, and sniffs my turkey sandwich. I run my fingers down its back, think about snipping off its little balls. Mommy said they have to be removed, so the cat won’t spray. She said big cats squirt this stinky stuff to mark their territory. I’d like to mark my territory and make this couch off limits to Donnie. (He just wiped a glob of snot on the seat cushion.) How long does it take to drown a cat? Less time, I bet, than it would take to drown my baby brother.

What show is this? he asks.

"Voltron: Defender of the Universe."

"Could we watch Sesame Street?"

No.

Why not?

Chill.

I’m hungry.

I hand him half of my sandwich, my eyes glued to Princess Allura.

Donnie bites into the bread, spits out the meat.

I don’t want dead bird. I want PBJ.

Even at age five, my brother is sensitive.

We’re out of jelly.

Where’s Daddy?

In the basement.

What’s he doing?

How should I know?

Daddy spends hours in the basement working on stuff he calls projects. He doesn’t like to be disturbed. The basement door is next to