Mr. Wonderful was a man of habit. Because nothing quite says "wonderful" like order. He lived modestly, as most do. He went to work at Chromapage Photoworks where he developed film and meandered about for nine hours; the hours not spent working, reading.
Mr. Wonderful read all sorts of books, books about pirates, food, and wars. Books about vampires, killers, and bakeries. Mr. Wonderful was an avid reader, so much so that the librarians would invite him over to read stories to the young'uns. Mr. Wonderful would do so, and with great enthusiasm! He could make stories seem to come alive! And this is what Mr. Wonderful did every other day.
Monday was Mr. Wonderful's cleaning day. He was always excited the Sunday night of every week. Sometimes, he could barely sleep! Occasionally, there would be pieces of people lying around and his dog, Derwent, would find them.
Sometimes, Derwent would hide them and Mr. Wonderful would have to look for them later!
"Oh, Derwent!" said Mr. Wonderful.
Mr. Wonderful was usually careful to clean, being a man of habit. But sometimes, things got iffy, Like when Mr. Wonderful saw little Timmy Buxton watch him steam-clean the blood out of his drapes.
Timmy didn't know what he was seeing, but Mr. Wonderful was always careful, mind. Mr. Wonderful ran out onto the lawn with an old bat he had kept in the closet. Mr. Wonderful hadn't played baseball in years.
"Good afternoon, Timmy!" yelled Mr. Wonderful.
"Afternoon, Mr. Wonderful!" Timmy yelled back.
Timmy rode a few feet down the sidewalk before he caught a bat with the back of his head. Luckily, his skull absorbed most of the blow and caved inward. As Mr. Wonderful carried Timmy back into the house, a pulpy mess began to pour out of the back of Timmy's head and onto the yard and driveway. Mr. Wonderful's mother once remarked that that biting into someone's head was like sinking one's teeth into a ripe nectarine. Not wanting to dispute her on it, Mr. Wonderful took it as fact. In later years, Mr. Wonderful found this to be true. But that was neither here nor there.
Mr. Wonderful threw Timmy down on the couch and closed the drapes. He picked him back up and tossed him in the tub, breaking any bones left unbroken in Timmy's neck.
Mr. Wonderful wondered. He wondered about which tool was the best. Oh, he ad many; boxes upon boxes upon boxes. Boxes in the garage, in the attic, or in the closet. Everywhere. In the end, though, Mr. Wonderful decided on bolt cutters and a hacksaw, with some smaller tools picking up slack when needed.
Mr. Wonderful saw red as he began to tear into Timmy's flesh, shredding muscle and bone as he moved back and forth with the saw. Then, when Timmy was in sufficient enough pieces to handle, Mr. Wonderful took bolt cutters to the fingers and toes. The sound of a chicken bone snapping could be heard. Or maybe it wasn't a chicken bone.
Regardless, Timmy was really hard to identify by the end of everything. Mr. Wonderful tossed the leftovers in the fridge. Meanwhile, Derwent took off out the front door with a calf!
Derwent came back, reluctantly, and showed his dismay by scattering arms and legs in the backyard. Timmy was truly a boy apart at this point. Mr. Wonderful decided to take it easy from then on, and buried Timmy in several places. Around town. In the park.
Mr. Wonderful had to be careful.
Comments or questions are always appreciated. My words belong to me, (copyrights and such), however, any interpretations of the same story are more than welcome. Creativity is to not be stifled.