Put down the phone Jackass, and go fuck your wife
I smirk and swipe away the notification. More soft snores come from Ashley as if it’s her way of subconsciously rejecting the idea.
More doom scrolling through my phone occupies my attention span, only this time, my boredom and disinterest are suppressed by Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. The Instagram app noticed begs for my attention on my screen between spoonfuls of the frozen dessert. At the same time I press the icon on my phone, I bite down on what may or may not be frozen dark chocolate chips, or was it pieces of ice?
First up, let’s check the podcast’s Instagram page. The Manhattan Murders Podcast page is strictly for gaining more publicity and listeners. Not much to look at, really, just clues about the next episodes.Which is most likely the reason I haven’t checked the page in a while.
Occasionally, I scan over my feed for possible competition. However, I am proud of the long list of followers we have gained over the years. We have come a long way. The names that I’m used to seeing as I scroll down, pop up through our list of likes and comments in the upper tab. I'm skimming them, rushing through the disinteresting posts.
What’s this, though?I rub the lenses of my horn-rimmed glasses on the soft texture of my cotton shirt. Ladies and gentlemen, it seems as if something else has grabbed my attention.Healthy MintChocolate Chip ice cream, you may have some competition. We have a new listener; our numbers are up by another follower.
We get new followers every once in a while, butsheseems different.
I click on her page for more information while taking glances at my sleeping wife every couple of minutes. Aside from a few snores, her body doesn’t stir under the cashmere blanket. I continue my gawking down at the profile picture of our new fan. Nothing to see here, Princess. Just your husband stalking his new and highly attractive follower on social media.
Your profile is public.Haven’t you learned anything from listening to our episodes, Thalia Smith?
Her picture is perfectly posed with her hazel eyes staring into the camera. Her bright red hair rivals the many neon signs downtown. The ruby loose waves frame her face perfectly.Careful, Thalia, you never know who is watching.
Her public profile guides me to more of her well-posed pictures. There are a few with friends, some with carefully planned outfit choices with fabric that clings close to her perfect curves. As I take another bite of my ice cream, my eyes trace up her arms and down her exposed thighs at her colorful tattoos.
She adds to her posts with filler pictures of the drinks that I would assume she makes herself. She placed each cocktail strategically on a long black bar in perfect lighting. Thalia has successfully stocked her Instagram page with an illusion of fun nightlife adventures as a single woman in New York City.You have excited my curiosity, Thalia Smith.Who are you really, new listener?I continue to scroll through her many posts.I can’t wait to find out.
Newest Obsession
The lights are dimmed in his office. Alan gently pulls out his office chair. The leather creaks against him as he sits down. He turns back to look at me. The look of excitement shows behind his green eyes. “You ready?” he mouths while pushing up his thick-framed black glasses. I give him the signal, a classic thumbs up.The episode is officially recording.Episode one hundred and fifty, or fuck, I don’t know. It’s somewhere in that ballpark.
“Hello, listeners.” He says in that voice of his, the one that turns on every episode.Anything to get the ladies listening. I roll my eyes at the transition of his pitch.
“Yeah. Hey fuckers.” I say in response, leaning back in my chair and putting my arms behind my head. I’m sure our listeners can hear the creaking sounds of the chair in the episode, but it’ll just add to the flavor of it. Not to mention, our visual followers will get a kick out of the easy atmosphere we paint. They know I don’t sugar coat who I am, not even for a podcast that I partially own. People love that, though. It shows that I’m a real fucking person, and I’ll stand by that.
“If you’ve never tuned in,” he continues. “You’re listening to The Manhattan Murders Podcast.” He says the same shit every episode, his words finding that easy cadence he’s known for. “This, to my left, for our visual viewers, is the talented Lee Reynolds.” I give a short wave to the camera, nothing too serious. You know, more like a flick of the wrist. Maybe every once in a while, I’ll flip off the camera and give them a sexy smirk afterwards.The broads love that shit. Don’t ever let them tell you anything fucking different.
“Hey everybody,” My greeting is casual, matching who I am in everyday conversation. “What kind of shit show have you got for us today?” Every episode is fairly similar. An introduction, a discussion on some sick fuck in our city, and his or her crimes. We don’t fucking discriminate. We throw in a bit of our spice to keep the followers on their toes. No one wants to listen to a boring podcast. It usually lasts about an hour, and then we end with our usual exit music, just something small I came up with while messing around in Alan’s studio. He eagerly agreed when I told him we needed something that stands out, something people will remember, but not too ridiculous.
Alan usually picks our topic for each episode. Topic meaning, which disgusting man or broad will be analyzed by the two of us for an hour. Like I said, we’re not the type to discriminate. If you’re a sick bastard, you’re a sick bastard. I don’t fucking care what you identify as. That’s just how it goes. Alan is more of the true crime enthusiast of the show, if you will. I just edit the material and help him out with my charming personality by being the co-host.
After we introduce the show, we tell you who we’re discussing, add in some information, a little banter, and a few jokes here and there before our episode ends.
When we finish our Friday night ritual, I click the record button icon. The episode covering Dave Berkowitz will be edited by yours truly and aired early next week. With extreme caution, I lay the expensive pair of headphones down on the black desk, taking extra care not to scratch the overpriced equipment.
“What are you doing tonight? What kind of trouble are you and the ol’ lady getting into?” I ask Alan. I already know the answer. It’s always the same every week. The guy never leaves his house unless it’s to go to work. I swear the guy doesn’t leave this damn house. The fact that he’s able to have his groceries delivered for the week is one of the highlights of his weekend. He and the missus just order what they need. Alan barely steps out into the natural sunlight.
“Probably another night in.” He answers, shutting his laptop. I could recite this Friday night routine conversation.
“You should let me take you out one of these days, just us guys. " My eyes point toward the direction of his living room. If she isn’t out with her friends, his wife sits there when we record our episodes. She’s usually on the couch, attached to whatever the hell she reads and her phone. Alan and I hadn’t had a night out together since the day my divorce was finalized, and that was for a celebration, of course. It was just a few drinks, nothing special.Damn, my ex was crazy. Great in bed, but that’s what they say about the crazy ones.
“Yeah. Sure.” He finally responds, but I know what he means.
“You know, Alan, there is more to life than just serial killers and serial killer documentaries. I’m sure she won’t mind if I take you out.” I look in the direction of the living room again. Ashley isn’t one for leaving the house. Well, she is, just not with Alan. Godonly knows when the last time was when they went somewhere together. They seem like roommates at this point.
“I’ve got research, my friend.” He’s always working, whether it’s on an episode, work stuff, or whatever shit Ashley has him doing around the house.All work and no play makes Alan a dull boy.“I’m sure she wouldn’t care,” he continues. “If she’s got her phone and that couch, she’s set.” I roll my eyes. Ashley hasn’t left that spot since we closed the office door and started recording. She’s a creature of habit. If I know her, she’s only gotten up to piss and get a glass of wine from the kitchen.
“Well, let’s go out! It sounds like she’s all set.” Anything I can say to get him out of this fucking house. He watches me grab my black leather jacket, which I had draped around the back of the desk chair.
“Maybe another time?” He looks to the window across the room, and we both look at each other as the rain gets heavier by the second.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Alan.” My whiskey glass I have been sipping for the duration of our recording, is cold on my lips as I tip back the remainder of the amber liquid. The burning sensation goes down my throat as I set it back down on the desk.
