Emet

Drained, dulled, and satisfied, Emet swayed on his feet, eyes closed and sweat dripping from his nose. "That was incredible, Galatea," he muttered. "You truly are . . . my perfect woman."

Galatea eased forward on the bed, letting her master collapse atop her. As always, she said nothing. The flush drained from her face and the "sweat" dried. As Emet slid off her to the mattress on his side, she stared blankly at the wall for only a few seconds before closing her eyes.

* * * *

The following several days saw a rejuvenated Emet obsessively at work, crafting figure after figure. His imagination sparked by the carnal experiences provided via his lover, he indulged in the motifs of Greek and Roman myth. Lustful satyrs, coy nymphs, and erection-sporting conquerers became his new theme. He found his hands and tools flying effortlessly about the mounds of clay, creating artful and intricate renditions born from his own base and lustful mind.

And whenever he was ready and randy, Galatea was available to him without him having to speak a word. Whatever his debauched desire, she acted out her part without hesitation or judgment. Emet allowed himself the fantasy of reading into the golem's sweaty and impassioned face a true desire for whatever it was she did for him. Ultimately, he knew none of it mattered; she was simply a creation, after all, with no more feeling than the tools he had used to create her. Still, a part of him wanted to ascribe to her at least some humanity, even if only to lend satisfaction to his acts of dominance.

Five days after Rabbi Rausch's visit, Emet oversaw the loading of three boxes of hardened clay figurines onto the back of a truck. Michael the art dealer had consented to accept twenty-three statues -- the number surprised the younger man -- in good faith, with the agreement that, if he did not like them, he would have his driver return them without charge to Emet's apartment.

Oh, he will take them, Emet thought assuredly as the hefty driver carefully arranged the boxes in the back of his truck. Emet had not allowed the man to enter his rooms; he had set the boxes just outside the door, which remained shut so as not to afford any accidental glimpses of Galatea.

Taking a moment, Emet opened the door to his basement apartment, peering inside. Galatea turned to look at him from her usual perch upon the cinder column. He smiled fondly. "I will return later, my lovely," he said as if to reassure her.

She nodded.

"And, do not go near the windows," he continued. "No one can know you are here. Do you understand?"

Again, she nodded.

Satisfied, Emet closed the door and locked it, then ascended the steps to join the driver in his idling truck.

He did not notice the curtain in Mrs. Rudolf's front window, the one which oversaw the stairwell down to his rooms, as it settled back into place.

* * * *

Who was he talking to? Mrs. Rudolf wondered as she stepped back from the window. Suspicion burned through her mind. That little weasel of a man better not have anyone staying with him.

She sipped her coffee in contemplation, maneuvering the bulk of her body around the cluttered living room.

He's been acting strange lately. When he came to pay his rent, he was actually smiling. Only two things make a man smile. Money and pussy.

She soured. He clearly is not making money, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Which means . . . .

A distasteful look crossed her face. He must be keeping one of those trashy, disease-ridden whores from down the street, she decided. And I can't have that. Not in my house!

"Carl! Jeffrey!" she shouted in her shrill tone.

Within moments, a pair of large, dim-witted men assembled in the living room, one from the kitchen, the other from one of the rooms upstairs. She gave them a sneering look while taking a ring of keys from within her voluminous house dress.

"Go down to Mr. Lowe's apartment in the basement," she ordered. "See if there is someone staying with him."

"Yes ma'am!" answered Carl, the larger of the two.

"What we 'sposed to do if there is?" asked Jeffrey.

Mrs. Rudolf grinned evilly. "Send her back to the street and deposit all of Mr. Lowe's things onto the sidewalk. He has breached his rental agreement."

The two men nodded and grinned. Carl took the key Mrs. Rudolf held out.

"I have some errands to run," she announced. "I should be back in a few hours. I trust this matter will be cleared up by then."

"You bet, Mrs. Rudolf."

* * * *

Michael regarded the boxes of small sculptures with impressed eyes. He had always known Emet for creating rather typical depictions of woodland animals and other such fare. Well-rendered and with acute attention to detail, but not exactly eye-catching. What he saw now, however, went against the grain the middle-aged sculptor normally offered.

"Emet, old man," he finally said, reaching into a box to take up a detailed statuette of a nubile, naked woman astride a unicorn with an obvious erection. "I am impressed."

The sculptor grinned with pride. "As I said, I have been inspired."

Michael chuckled, replacing the diminutive statue and picking up another. "She must be one hell of a woman," he remarked, brow furrowed as he looked the detailed carving over. It showed a muscular satyr, standing with goat legs splayed wide. Two massive, detailed erections jutted out from the creature's groin, pointed toward a pair of crouching, naked fairies with their mouths open and tongues outstretched, as if about to catch the streams of the satyr's orgasm.

"She is unique," Emet responded. "So . . .?"

"Well, I'll be honest," Michael said. "I get a lot of customers looking for erotic pieces like this. Seems to be all the rage now."

Emet grinned. "These boxes constitute only a small sample," he said. "In fact, given the proper advance, I could purchase enough clay to make three times as many pieces as this."

Michael arched an eyebrow in interest. "Oh, really?"

The sculptor met the art dealer's eye. "Yes. Really."

The younger man contemplated the implied offer for a moment, then nodded. "I'll tell you what," he finally said. "Five hundred as an advance against sales. I'll put them right in the front window and price them from fifty to seventy bucks to start. If they sell quickly, I'll raise the price and settle at fifty percent."

Emet was quick to counter. "Twenty-five percent," he said. "The rest to me."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "Thirty-three," he counter-offered. "The rest to you."

Emet smiled and held out his hand. "My advance, if you please. Oh, and I will need the services of your driver for all the clay I'll need to take back to my apartment."

* * * *

As with the morning, Emet did not allow Michael's driver to enter his apartment. He had the burly man deposit four hundred dollars' worth of malleable clay in several boxes upon his basement doorstep, then sent the man on his way. As the truck rumbled away, the old, dented Cadillac belonging to his landlady sidled up along the curb. Emet gave her a disparaging look.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Rudolf," he said without disguising his contempt.

Her eyes searched the sidewalk, as if looking for something. She seemed displeased that she did not see what she had expected. "Mr. Lowe," she responded after emitting a small belch. Paper bags and fast food wrappers littered the front passenger seat. She wiped her slovenly mouth. "Is everything in order with your rooms? I like to make sure my tenants are well cared for."

"Oh, I'm sure everything is fine," he said. "I only just now returned home, but I am sure my apartment is unmolested."

She smiled mirthlessly. "Then all is well, Mr. Lowe. Good day."

"Good day." He watched as Mrs. Rudolf put the aging Cadillac in gear and pulled away from the curb, then as she drove around the corner to the rear parking lot. His dislike for the woman had grown with that simple exchange. Feeling a spike of anxiety stab through his heart, he turned to the steps and descended to his door.

* * * *

The sight which greeted him made Emet stumble in the doorway, gripping the handle of the door for support. His mouth gaped; eyes bulged. Even with the pale light which seemed to transform every color into lifeless shades of grey, the streaks, spatters, and puddles of congealed blood all but glowed with unnatural radiance.

Two large, muscular young men lay upon the floor, their bodies crushed and twisted at obscene angles. The closest one lay with his chest to the floor but his head turned all the way around. One arm was canted upward, broken in several places, the limp hand hanging down toward the middle of the back. The other corpse stared upward with an expression of perpetual pain. Both had apparently been bludgeoned to death.

"Oh, no," bemoaned Emet, looking upon the surreal scene of carnage. "What happened? Galatea? Galatea! Where are you?"

She emerged from the darkest corner of the room, beautiful sublime body decorated with blood. Both of her arms were streaked with drying crimson ichor, with more spots and lines upon firm, naked breasts. Her face remained innocent, unperturbed, as if heedless to the violence that had been committed.

"G-Galatea?"

She nodded slowly, and smiled, raising her blood-stained hands in welcome.

Quickly, Emet shut the door behind him. The spike of anxiety from moments before became a pounding wave against his chest. "Wh-what did you do?"

His creation lowered her arms and glanced to the bodies upon the floor. Her brow furrowed as she returned her gaze to Emet. It was as if she could not understand why he was acting the way he was.

I only told her to remain inside, he thought, remembering. Not to go near the windows. I told her . . . .

His face paled as he recalled his words, and the chilling directive he had inadvertently given Galatea.

No one can know you are here.

He sighed deeply, heavily. By telling her that, I opened the door to this carnage. If she was discovered by someone, how better to insure no one knew of her existence than by killing those who discovered her?

And now I have a mess to clean up. He pinched the bridge of his brow, trying to stem off a headache. Where did they come from? Thugs from the street, seeking to rob me? A dark chuckle escaped his throat and he squatted beside the second corpse. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked with morbid glee. But his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked past the dried blood on the body's face. "Wait. I know you."

Hurriedly, he dug beneath the corpse's backside, seeking the wallet. Finding it, he flipped it open -- forty dollars went into Emet's own pocket -- and extracted the driver license. "Well, hello, Carl Wilson," he said with a sneer. Upon reading the address, Emet craned his head, looking upward as if through his ceiling to the rooms above.

A cold, malicious smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

* * * *

Emet found the fat woman as she sat before the aged television in the living room of the house. She looked up from a box of cheese crisps with an annoyed frown. "Mr. Lowe," she grumbled. "You don't often crawl out of your hole, and today I've seen you twice."

He glared back briefly, then dropped a pair of well-worn wallets onto the coffee table. "I found these outside in the garbage," he said simply. "They belong to a couple of the other tenants, I believe. You might want to be sure they get them back."

A cold hand squeezed Mrs. Rudolf's heart, but only briefly. She gave Emet a dismissive look. "Thank you, Mr. Lowe. They'll be glad to have them back."

"I only hope I don't find any others," he said as he turned back toward the door. "No one wants to be caught dead without their identification around here."

* * * *

Mrs. Rudolf finally turned off the lights just before eleven o'clock. The world news was over, and she was no fan of late-night Seinfeld reruns. Still bristling over Emet Lowe's earlier smugness, she pushed away thoughts of how such an ineffectual little man could have fended off two hulking men as Carl and Jeffrey, as well as the location of her erstwhile tenants. She simply assumed the buffoons were avoiding her due to their failure.

This isn't the end of it, she told herself firmly as she ambled up the stairs. I'll see that little weasel gets put on the street, along with whatever little tramp he's got stashed away.

The muffled -- but still loud -- bass emanating from one of the apartments just past the landing made her scowl. She went to the door and hammered a fleshy fist against it. "Hey! No loud music after ten o'clock!" she yelled. "Or whatever you call that shit you're playing!"

Fucking losers, she thought to herself, smirking as the noise behind her abated. Most of her tenants, she knew, could not afford a late-night visit from the police for a noise disturbance.

Past the four rented rooms on the third floor, Mrs. Rudolf arrived at her own door. The exertion from climbing two flights of stairs was telling; her face was swollen and red, and sweat trickled down her neck from her temples. She recalled the days before the late Mr. Rudolf passed, when she rarely had need to leave the "penthouse" on the top floor. Curse the old bastard for dying on me, she mused darkly.

The room beyond was cluttered with stacks of newspapers, magazines, and other recyclables Mrs. Rudolf had long planned to have taken away. The odor of mildew and rotting food filled the room. The capacious woman wrinkled her nose briefly, but she was used to the smell. Ignoring the clutter, she headed for the kitchenette, looking for a last snack before bed. A half-full jar of pickles would do the trick, she decided.

Turning back toward the living area, she gave a startled gasp, inadvertently letting the jar slip from her grasp.

"Good evening, Mrs. Rudolf."

She glared, eyes blazing wildly. "Mr. Lowe! How dare you! I'll call the police!"

The gaunt man shook his head with a dark chuckle. "Oh, you know how long it takes them to respond around here, Mrs. Rudolf. Better to call the Salvation Army."

"These are my rooms," she hissed, spittle dripping from her lower lip. "You have no business here."

"Oh, I think I do," he responded casually. "Galatea, my darling, give the old hen back her pickles."

Mrs. Rudolf frowned, then looked to her left, where stood an unabashedly naked young woman with the most unearthly golden hair and glittering eyes she had ever witnessed. A disgusted expression twisted the fat landlady's face as she snatched the jar from pale, offering hands. "Have you no shame? Is this what the world has come to? Naked whores running around carelessly?"

Emet shook his head with a wan smile. "Oh, my dear creation is nothing like those pathetic whores who part their thighs for the chemistry gods. She is so much more than that."

"Well, I really don't care, Mr. Lowe," she bristled, even as she remembered their earlier meeting, and the implication that this slight, frail-looking man had somehow chased off her buffoons. She made an effort to be amiable, despite the context. "I would ask you to leave."

"In due time," Emet said, then gave a short nod to the silent Galatea. Without the slightest flicker of emotion, the alabaster-skinned woman raised a large butcher knife, taken from Mrs. Rudolf's own cupboard, and advanced.

The corpulent woman blanched visibly, eyes widening in fear at the sight of the knife. "Wh-what are you doing?"

"Have you ever heard of the term 'just deserts,' by any chance?"

Mrs. Rudolf backpedaled into the kitchen, raking a fleshy hip against the counter. She fell against the refrigerator, fear blatant in her eyes as the naked inhuman woman approached. "I'll give you whatever you want! Please! Tell her to stop!"

"But why would I want to do that? I can't stop now; you know too much."

"I won't say anything! I swear!" Even as she screeched out those words, Mrs. Rudolf raised her arms to protect herself, palms turned outward so the hands would shield her face. This, of course, left the insides of her forearms fully exposed.

She heard more than felt the quick slashes of the blade, metal singing wetly in the air. She cried out once, anticipating a death stroke, but it did not come.

With slow trepidation, Mrs. Rudolf lowered her arms, focusing past her own curled fingers to a sight which both sickened and unnerved her. Emet stood behind his voluptuous companion, chin upon her shoulder beside the ghostly, blank face. His hands had come up from behind to grope and knead heavy, fleshy breasts. His face grinned maniacally.

"Isn't she wonderful? So beautiful, so obedient, so . . . deadly."

Brow wrinkling with confusion, Mrs. Rudolf became aware of the sensation of liquid warmth running down the inside of her arms. Dreading what she might find, the loathsome woman turned her arms and looked upon the long, leaking gouges which ran from wrists nearly to her elbows. Bloody flaps of flesh lay wide open, allowing the torrent of blood to spill freely to the floor.

"Oh, sweet Jesus in Heaven," she muttered, feeling her vision blur as light-headedness set in. She could barely focus upon the two figures before her as Emet Lowe bent the naked woman over before him, thrusting his hips firmly against her backside.

The degenerate, perverse vision of two lovers fucking while she died was the last thing Mrs. Rudolf would ever see.

* * * *

"Emet!" exclaimed Michael as the lanky sculptor stepped through his doors. "How's my favorite artist?"

Emet smirked arrogantly, meeting the younger man with outstretched hand. "Oh, I'm your favorite, now?"

Michael chuckled. "Well, sure! I've sold all your pieces. Even had people coming back all week asking when I'm going to have more."

The sculptor grinned. "Then you will be glad to accept the thirty new pieces I've completed."

"Thirty?"

Emet nodded. "Your driver should be bringing them in shortly."

Michael shook his head with a grateful smile and clasped Emet's bony shoulder. "I don't know how you did it, but you did. Just the other day, I showed some of your pieces to a couple of appraisers. They really liked what they saw, Emet."

"This is only the beginning. I have even more impressive works in the making."

"Can't wait to see them," Michael said honestly. His eyes softened. "Sorry to hear about that mess last week with your landlady."

Emet shrugged. "She was obviously not well."

The shop owner shook his head ruefully. "Dangerous place you live in, old man. Your landlady goes crazy, beats a couple of her tenants to death before slitting her wrists . . . you ever think she might have killed you, too?"

The sculptor smiled. "Not really, no."

* * * *

While the sun, as always, did not shine upon the Devil's Block, Emet could almost feel its warming glow as he left the train station and stepped lively along the street toward his home. The majority of his day had been spent glad-handing with the various shop and gallery owners who sold his wares. They had all agreed to the same deal he enjoyed with Michael, resulting in a flattering return for the struggling artist.

In a mere week, he had earned more than enough money to pay his rent, all other bills, and put some aside. It had been years since Emet had enjoyed a financial surplus. He looked forward to finding a better place to live, a better life, one which he would happily spend with his perfect woman, Galatea.

Head held high as he strutted through the filthy streets, Emet had no other thought in his mind than to return to his humble apartment and spend the evening indulging in all manner of carnal delights with his compliant lover. He flatly ignored the looks from dealers, pimps and prostitutes, until a lone voice called out to him.