277th and 278th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Thursday November 6th, 1999 6:31AM
Subject: arjingrj3njrnejn

I don't know how I’m going to deal with it all; I’m not going to make it!




From: Stacey Marchenkova
To: dom borax < mailto:printthisplease@hotmail.com >
Sent: Friday November 7th 1999 14:21PM
Subject: Stay sleeping

I hope you find my note… by the kettle…I’ll be back soon…but in case you log on before making a cup of tea here is a small note saying prepare yourself for the best smoked salmon sandwich ever…

You look so peaceful when you sleep, darling… I changed your pillow slip as it was a little wet.

266th email

From: Stacey Marchenkova  
To: dom borax < mailto:printthisplease@hotmail.com >
Sent:  Saturday October 25th , 1999 19:51PM
Subject:  My day.

Dear Dom, your folks invited me over to tea today…it was really nice…we sat in the sitting room and drank a Harrogate blend…Yorkshire Gold…and ate some homemade biscuits…it was charming…Oftenbark curled by my feet and your Dad told a story about taking you to see Wages of Fear at the Classic Cinema in East Brisbane….I remembered that you said it was one of your favourite films based on a number of criteria…

1: You’d seen it a number of times.

2: It was entertaining and exciting.

3: it had just the right amount of snob factor.

4: It was your father’s favourite too so it had heritage and grand sentiment.

I told your folks about this and your father laughed…warmly I believe… and then asked if I had seen the film…I admitted I hadn’t and before you know it I was watching the film with your father while your mother made us a roast…

I can’t tell you how lovely it was…and how much I loved the film…I mean the first hour is a little slow…but I understand why it’s there…and though that sounds like a criticism…after watching the whole…the first hour needed to be there to truly understand the desperation and the lethargy of the central characters…

So 5 out of 5 for me…

As are you…

Anyway thought I’d also mention when I was leaving your mum asked me if you’d been a little out of contact lately…I said you had but prefaced it with an understanding of your heavy workload…she nodded taking it in before maternally manipulating that she just gets a little worried sometimes…so it might be worth giving her a ring one evening…just to let her know you’re okay…

Love ya

Stacey

129th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Saturday July 14th, 1999 11:03 AM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE RE Ways to Kill Russell

Stacey,
Let me tell you about my life.

After we stopped emailing last night, I hoped for some kind of Friday 13th kill-thrill movie marathon to cap off a seeming perfect day. Not that I wanted to be gouged optically, hacked and minced internally or threatened by a vocally vocoded Lurch who desperately ‘wanted to put their evil inside me…’

No, I simply wanted to be frightened by watching it happen to others on my wonderful cathode ray tube telly. For that’s what the Friday 13th’s about, an indestructible killer in a mask, yeah?

So - there I was – home alone. Elsa was out with some friends at some costume party (come as ‘your favourite psycho’ party) not to return until the wee hours. (Note: I had elected to stay home because the idea of wearing that Winnie the Pooh costume again was too much for me to bear)

Besides some solo time was just what this misanthrope ordered.

And it seemed perfect. I toasted a toastie, made a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold tea, turned off the lights, lifted Oftenbark onto the couch and prepared myself for some classic slasher horror to keep me company and guide me into the 14th.

It seemed like a perfect waste of time.

And I was so ready; ramped up, fore-played and titillated by our moody cruel banter of bloodlust-Badlands-Moors-Bonnie-and-Clyde-Leopold-and-Loeb murdering of our dear bloody Russell:

I was set aquiver.

But then - the TV exploded.

Okay not exploded – maybe more whimpered as TS would say leaving me just with the grainy super 16 memory of masked killers and bad acting.

Damn you Cathode Gods.

So I went to bed, wanting to dream the bad that good man fear.
But that didn’t even happen. All I got was one of those work panic dreams where I forget how to use the bar code.

I hate that dream.

So I woke on the 14th feeling betrayed and craving comic book violence.

Elsa wasn’t home yet so there was no one to moan to or at least be tortured by with indecent tickling.

I guess she had a good night. You know those dancers - once they get the kick, they’re kicking until dawn.

Even Oftenbark was weary of the idea, preferring to lazily chomp on a squeak toy that looked kinda like my Uncle Dan’s face after he was badly sunburnt last New Years day.

So what was I to do? Well, I showered, ate toast, invented a new facial expression and decided to make a weapon out of alfoil and coat hangers.

And that’s when he returned, my Boogie Man, my Jack the Ripper, my nightmare, my slasher, my killer in a mask.

Keith.

Him: Hey!

Me: Keith!?

Him: Do I know you?

I couldn’t believe it. It was Keith. He was obviously still dressed in his Ed Gein costume from the previous night’s party.

Me: What you doing here?

Him: Need to piss.

I shook my head trying to block out this all encompassing image as Keith waddled drunkenly toward the back of the flat.

Elsa walked in shortly after.

Me: What’s Keith doing here?

Elsa: He gave me a lift home.

Me: He’s drunk.

Elsa: I don’t think so.

We then heard vomiting.

I turned and looked at Elsa as she shrugged and collapsed on the couch. She tried to turn on the TV to lull her away from the boozy night.

Me: It’s broken.

Elsa: Oh.

More vomiting was heard from the toilet.

Me: So Keith was at the party?

Elsa: I know.

Me: Why?

Elsa: We have mutual friends.

This seemed implausible as Keith finally emerged from the toilet.

Him: I wouldn’t go in there for a bit.

He said as he plonked himself on the couch between us.

Me: So, Keith. I see you went to the party as Ed Gein. I really love the hick bib and brace and leatherface mask.

Keith looked at me, bewildered.

Him: Who’s Ed Gein?

I couldn’t be bothered responding - here I was again with this immortal extra sent to taunt and torture me forever.

Him: Hey do you mind if I sleep here today?

Keith finally said after what seemed like the longest ten seconds of my life. I looked at Elsa – who was moments away from sleeping.

Me: What?

Him: I’m wiped.

Me: So?

Him: Do you have one of those allergenic pillows?

Me: No.

Him: I might snore then.

Me: You can’t stay here.

Him: Why?

Me: Because you frighten me.

Him: Really?

Me: You’re always going to be in my life, aren’t you?

Him: I don’t know.

Me: You’ll always be after me?

Him: Only if you steal my wallet.

Me: I can’t kill you can I?

Him: No.

Me: I’ll never be able to kill you?

Him: No!!

Me: Even if I stab you with this fake alfoil sword, you’ll come back from
the dead time and time again.

Him: I might just go, okay.

Me: But you’ll be back.

Keith started to back off out of the lounge room, nervously.
I watched him go, never taking his eyes off me until he reached the door. And there I was again, alone and comfortable with Elsa sleeping next to me. And though the TV was shot and it was a day later than I hoped, I realised I had finally got what I wished for.

I had gotten my horror film.
I had gotten my boogy-man.
His name was Keith.

Him: Hey, mind if I borrow twenty bucks. I’m nearly out of petrol.

Said Keith as he made one final appearance in my life for that day.

Me: My God, I’m in the sequel already.

Him: So no to the twenty bucks?

Me: Burn in hell.

Keith shrugged and left. His smell still lingered from the bathroom, his torture was complete and I was eternally going to be his last girl.
Please help me.


Dom xx