Snicker Snack by Rich Logsdon

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
--from Lewis Carroll's "The Jabberwocky"(1872)

I. As Grandpa Ezra Montgomery used to say: The Good Lord asks everyone to bear a cross. My cross, son, has been Katrina.

Katrina was my sister. Wonderful Baptists, Mom and Dad took in the shy, slightly plump, bespectacled thirteen-year old brunette after her parents died in a plane crash in Ohio. That was in 1972, a year after Grandpa died and three years after they adopted me.

Through high school in our small town outside Seattle, Katrina was an ideal student: straight A's, honor roll, little dating, not much of a life apart from the occasionally intimate moments with me. She graduated with honors, matured into a striking, busty, raven-haired beauty in college, and earned her B. A. one year before I received my associates at the local community college.

Since I am older than Katrina and somewhat deformed (I walk with a slight limp), this event occasioned a moment of humiliation for me. On an unusually hot June day in 1981, I saw where I stood with the folks.

"Y'know, Ezra, I think your sister's not only cuter'n you; she may be whole hell of a lot smarter," my father boomed in an affected drawl that gave the impression that he was one of the good old boys. He spoke these words at the dual graduation barbecue held in our huge back yard. Most of the town's leading citizens-including the Mayor and the Chair of the local Chamber of Commerce--were there to eat our food, drink our beer, and (I suspect) feast their eyes on Katrina.

"Yessirree, Daddy," I said, mimicking his drawl in a nasal tone, "Katrina might be the real fuckin' ticket."

Always sensitive to bad language and rebukes from his children, Dad glared at me and then, remembering himself, continued lavishing praises upon Katrina, even going so far as to compare her to a recent Playmate of the Month. Katrina was busy getting to know Byron, the Mayor's son, who had trouble keeping his hands off her that afternoon, and she probably acknowledge what the old man said. But Kat did acknowledge me.

I limped past her, seeking shade from the unrelenting heat when she turned from Byron, looked coyly at me, and called me, "Hey, slithy tove." It was a line from Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky poem.

I smiled. "Hey, snicker-snack," I said.

Relief was short lived, however. A mean-spirited woman who traced her roots to mid-nineteenth century Nebraska dirt farmers, Mom scowled at me from her patio chair as I stood in the shade of the great pine tree, and she even spat in my direction. On that blistering afternoon I knew that I had lost precious ground in a family that Daddy claimed was one of the oldest in the Pacific Northwest.

After that, the fires of affection between my parents and me abated though I did manage to redeem myself somewhat. Six months later, with Katrina working toward her Ph. D. in English at a Southern California university, I was taken as manager's assistant of a large local clothing retail store run by wealthy Christians. I knew that now I was in line to make good money.

Then life took a funny turn. When Katrina was twenty-four (in her second year in graduate school) and I was twenty-six, our parents died in a trailer fire. Claiming concern for my parents' health as they approached sixty-five, I had encouraged them to move out of the large three-story Montgomery house, which I would occupy, and take a dwelling in a trailer court one town over. After the fire, which was ruled accidental, the court appointed me executor of the estate. Curiously, Mom and Dad had left very little to Katrina, certainly not enough for her to continue her education. In fact, because I had to use our parents' savings to keep up the one hundred and fifty year old house and pay off some of my own gambling debts, Katrina was forced to drop out of graduate school. Within a year after that, she returned to the Northwest.

For a time, she substitute-taught in a high school in Olympia and received (predictably) outstanding evaluations from her peers, but when the state's economy faltered and she was laid off, she surprised many who knew her by taking a job as a nude dancer in Vancouver, B.C. No one saw this coming. According to acquaintances who did travel up to Vancouver, she was an extraordinary dancer with a terrific routine-for her second stage dance, she appeared to set her nipples on fire--and screwed for cash on the side until finally a guy from Vegas gave her a part in a film.

The rest is history, as they say.

By thirty, Katrina was a film legend, particularly among suburban middle and upper-middle class males. While I didn't approve her lifestyle, I admit that Katrina was good at what she did. I mean, picture this: in the typical final scene, gorgeous raven-haired Katrina undresses, revealing a beautifully tanned body with enormous, tanned, nipple-pierced tits, and offers herself to three men at once; this is the scene in which three feuding boyfriends resolve hostilities by penetrating my sister, more or less simultaneously, bringing the movie to a frenzied climax.

Believe me, son: Katrina was fantastic.

II. Fantastic or not, it became obvious over time that my sister's legendary status could hurt me.

Still working for the retail company, which now covered the entire country, I was in line for a promotion; I had publicly confessed a newfound faith in Jesus at a nationally televised revival; and I was on the verge of running for the board of elders at my boss' church, one of the biggest nondenominational places of worship in the Northwest. In fact, the day before I drove down to see Katrina, the owner's nephew had joked with me about Stephanie Birch, which was Katrina's film name in the world of adult entertainment. From the beginning of her rise to stardom in the world of sleaze, she had made no effort to conceal her true identity: she remained Katrina Montgomery from a small town outside Seattle.

The nephew's remark troubled me. I put the matter immediately to prayer and knew that a visit to my sister was necessary. Thus, soon after Katrina won the award from the Adult Film Academy, I drove to her home just south of Seattle.

The visit occurred on a Wednesday night in late January in 1990, the wind blasting in from the ocean and driving the temperature into the mid-twenties.

Katrina lived in a luxurious one-story house on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The waves crashed against the rocks as I sat in the living room on the thick white sofa, my broad and powerful back to the picture window. Across the room sat lovely Katrina. The only light came from the lamp next to her chair, and even then Katrina looked ravishing, her raven hair stopping just short of the soft blue robe, which was open enough to show the tops of her nipples.

She served me coffee on this night and seemed glad to see me. As I sipped from the cup she cooed with an almost too-friendly smile, "So, what brings my darling brother Ezra here?"

I set my cup on the table in front of me, never taking my eyes off her. "I'm your brother," I said. "I ought to visit once in a while. You know, stay in touch."

Katrina continued her forced smile.

"Ezra, we haven't seen or talked with each other for, what, three years…?"

I cleared my throat of phlegm and took several gulps from the coffee cup. When it's cold and wet, my lungs fill up with mucous.

"Four and a half, sweetheart," I remarked, wind banging against the large plate glass window behind me.

"Long time for a brother and sister not to talk."

"Too long."

She paused, then raised her eyebrows.

"So what brings you here, Ezra?" she asked, her voice cool this time.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I dunno," I mumbled. "Maybe God."

She looked put-off, closed her eyes for a second, and took a deep breath.

"Uh, ok. God, then. You get religion or something?" she said. "Is that what this is?"

"Yeah," I laughed, leaning back against the sofa. "Found Jesus. Found God."

Now it was my turn to smile.

"Well, whaddya know about that?" she said, almost amused.

"Funny, huh?" I asked.

"Maybe a little."

"God is why I'm here, Kat," I said.

"God is why you're here?"

"Yes."

She chortled.

"Why, Ezra? To 'bring me to the Lord,' as they say? Get me to one of those goddamned revivals where I can raise my hands and shout for Jesus to save me?"

I stared at her.

"You're close," I said. I remember Katrina had despised our folks' involvement in the Baptist church.

"Save me Jesus!" she suddenly yelled, laughing. "Oh, please save me, Jesus. Save me, save me, save me. Hallelujah!"

I stared hard at her. Sometimes, it's hard to turn the other cheek.

"Yeah, you might say that," I stated. "I'm here to save you."

She tilted her head back and laughed obscenely.

"Oh, yeah. Praise the Lord, thank you Jesus, and all that shit, right? Right, Ezra? Just fall down and worship the Savior, is that it?"

"That's it. And I think you should quit being a slut."

A pause followed. She was trying to digest what I had just said.

"A what?" she began again, slowly. "You, Ezra the selfish fucking pig, are calling me, your sister, a slut?"

"It's what you do for a living, isn't it?"

Unsmiling, she looked at me, shook her head, then gestured with a sweep of her arm. "And you want me give up all this? My house? This view? My cars? You think I'm stupid, Ezra? Is that it? Look at this, at what I have. Think, Ezra, think."

"Think, Ezra, think" was a line daddy had used on me when I couldn't seem to grasp simple concepts, like how to change a bicycle tire.

I was fighting rage when the Lord brought an image to my mind: I remembered then that, in one of her films, Katrina had worn symbols that my church would have regarded as purely satanic.

I stared at her, suddenly realizing that this was about more than getting Katrina out of the sex business or saving my own reputation. This was about spiritual warfare, the truth of which was confirmed when darkness began pouring into the room.

"Please don't mock me, and don't mock God, Kat," I advised.

"I'm not mocking God, dumb ass. Who the fuck's God?" She closed up her robe and forced another laugh. "Fuck your little God, Ezra Montgomery. I'm mocking you."

I struggled to maintain control.

"You a devil-worshiper, little sister?" I asked. In truth, I wanted to strike her across her mouth and see her bleed.

The question caught her off guard.

"What?" she said. "What? You asking me if I worship, what, the devil?"

"I'm thinking of one of your films."

She sat back in her chair and grinned sardonically.

"You watching me fuck in the films, Ezra? You and who: God? You and the Good Lord watching me screw? How about that."

I grew tense. "I just asked, Katrina. You worship the devil?"

She stood, fire slowly filling her eyes. "Who are you to ask me that?" she sputtered. "Who the fuck are you, Ezra? You think I worship the Devil and let him screw me? Is that it? Jesus, that was in a film. Ezra, old chump, I got news for you: I don't even believe in the Devil. Besides what the fuck is it to you what I do with my life? You never gave a shit before."

I leaned forward on the couch and, trembling with fury, folded my hands in front of me.

"It's about what you're doing with your life, Kat," I said. Because of the mucous, I nearly choked on the words, so I spat on her carpet.

Her eyes became pinpricks, and she answered coldly, "My life is none of your damned business, Ezra, you contemptible shit."

In the lengthy silence that followed, we looked each other. The waves were crashing right outside the window.

"But it is my business, Kat."

"Hey, fuck you, shit. Just fuck you." She spoke in a surprisingly subdued, though certainly hostile voice.

I remained silent.

"Besides," she added, "where the hell were you when I needed money after Mom and Dad died? Off in Seattle betting on the fucking races? Losing your shirt in another card game? Whacking off to porn? Shit, Ezra, sometimes I think you set the fucking fire."

I gritted my teeth and smiled. Clearly, my sister doubted my newfound faith in Christ and didn't understand that Jesus makes all things new.

"When you needed money, I was where I've always been, Kat," I said.

"And where might that have been?" she snapped.

"At home, waiting for you. You could have called."

Another pause. Katrina looked up at the ceiling. Then she looked back at me.

"Jesus H. Christ, I did call, Ezra. You never answered the phone. You never answered my letters. Goddamn, Ezra, do you think I'm a fucking moron?"

At that moment, I didn't remember letters or phone calls. The room was getting colder by the second.

"God, I give up. I give up. Y'know what, Ezra? You're a pig. Like I said. A goddamned pig. And I sure as hell do not need you now. Go fuck yourself," she said, shivering. Her words scalded me. "Please get the hell away from me. Leave me house. Please."

Fighting to show my sister love from above, I leaned forward and slowly stood. My head spinning, I limped around the room a couple of times, cracked my knuckles, and then spoke. I could almost see my breath in the air.

"As surely as I stand here, Kat, the day will come when you'll regret your decision to have intercourse on the screen for a living. That an abomination to God," I proclaimed, "and it must stop. Katrina, my dear sister, if it doesn't stop, God and I will make it stop. Surely," I continued, "God will come against you. He afflict you with disease; he will strike your offspring; he will take everything you value. He will disgrace you in public, and you will become the most despised of women."

Outside, the wind raged.

I had never yelled at Kat, never even gotten angry with her before.

As if from an unreachable height, I looked at down at her. Her eyes were wide with fear. I must have sounded more intimidating than our father at his very worst. I must have sounded like God.

"Please, Ezra," she finally said, "please, please, just go away. I'm sorry for what I said. Really. I lost my temper. Just please, please go away. Go away. Now."

I began to speak, then stopped myself. There's nothing more to say to this woman, I told myself. So, without a word, without so much as a glance at her, I walked to the door, strode to my car in the driveway, and drove back to Port Hall.

III. After my visit with Katrina, I continued with my job but, somewhat predictably, was denied the promotion. Around the same time, Kat's career picked up momentum. A cable stations featured her talk show, and in place like Los Angeles, New York, and Las Vegas, she began to be seen in the company of a very powerful congressman, who publicly proclaimed his affection for Katrina. While no one at work spoke to me about Kat, I figured they all knew about my sister.

All I could do was pray. So every night for months, I turned off the TV, got down on my knees in the front room of the old Montgomery house, and wept and asked the Lord for guidance.

Months passed before God told me a thing to do.

Timing, He said, would be everything. He told me to buy a sword and led me to a pawnshop in downtown Seattle where I found a razor-sharp one that exactly resembled the beautiful singing thing He had shown me in a dream.

I was ready.

So, one moonless night in late February, I drove out to Kat's house, knowing that the Senator-a former Olympic champion-would be there. I parked the car down the hill, and dressed in black and sword in hand I walked the path that took me to the back of the house, where Kat's bedroom was located. It was an unusually large bedroom.

It was around midnight, and concealed by the lush foliage just outside her glass-door window, I waited for the perfect moment. The door-window was not latched.

As the wind rustled leaves, I watched my gorgeous sister undress for Max, a tall, thin middle-aged man, who was already naked and hard. Once she had stepped out of her evening dress (They had probably attended a local concert that evening), she lay back on her bed, spread her legs, and lightly touched herself just as she used to do for me.

As she parted her lips, I saw with piercing agony the tiny little hole that millions dreamed of penetrating. The senator approached, and as she guided him into her, I knew the time had come.

Quietly pushing the window-door open, I glided in, first kneeling, then crawling across the smooth-as-glass hardwood floor. My limp didn't bother me much. Inches from the bed, I stopped and listened to the succulent sounds of bone entering flesh. When I could take no more, I slowly rose, looming large over unsuspecting Max, my sword suspended over my head. Almost on cue, Katrina took her heavy eyes off Max and looked at me, a large and powerful man, my long black hair tied in a knot on the top of my head.

Fucking stopped immediately. The earth tilted on its axis. Max slowly turned and, eyes bulging, saw me. I was an arm's length away, standing sideways, sword poised to strike, eyes riveting him.

Max drew himself out of Katrina, herself ghost-white, slid to the other side of the mattress, and got off the bed.

His clothes were piled on the floor at the foot of the bed, and I watched as he knelt, never taking his eyes off me. Trembling, he tried to dress.

The long and sharp blade nearly wrapped around my head, I glanced at my sister, her brown nipples pierced with beautiful gold rings, her left breast bearing a rose tattoo, her raven hair blowing slightly in the breeze.

"Hello, Ezra," she said weakly. Fear filled her voice.

"Hello, little sister," I said.

Her mouth hung open, and she struggled to speak while I waited, often looking at Max, who was still kneeling and fumbling with his clothes.

"Wh--what are you doing here?" she asked, breathless.

"Don't you remember our talk?" I asked, chuckling. "About God?"

Awaiting her answer, I closed my eyes and reached for God.

"I remember," she whimpered. "Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. Yes, I do remember."

I heard a noise and opened my eyes, my head turning to the right. Max was still kneeling, trying to pull his pants on.

I heard weeping.

"Ezra, please, go away. Go away and do not do this thing," Katrina implored.

"May as well tell God to go away," I rasped, mucous building in my throat.

"I don't think I believe in God, at least not your God, Ezra," she sobbed, "and if I did, I don't believe he'd act like this. Do you? You think He'd say ok to this?"

I looked at her, then back at Max.

"Please understand, Katrina," I said, struggling to clear my throat. "I have been called by God to perform my duty. This night, I am His vessel, and I do praise Him." At that moment, the wind pounded the side of the house, and I felt the warm glowing of His presence filling the room.

God's here, the small silent voice inside me said.

"Your duty?" she began.

"Your duty?" said Max.

I smiled at Max, then looked back at Katrina.

I spat on the floor.

"My duty," I answered, my throat suddenly clearing, "as one called by the Holy of Holies to purge and redeem."

Holding his pants up around his waist, Max shakily rose and began backing toward the door. This is it, I told myself. I spun towards him with a howl, holding my sword in front of me with both hands, and began the dance that I had learned in a dream, slowly circling the terrified man, rapidly placing one foot just in front of the other, bobbing and dancing as I chanted whatever God put into my brain. I had no limp now.

"Please let me go, old boy," Max wheezed. I wondered at that moment why he didn't know my name. How could this be? I asked myself as I continued to circle him in short, choppy steps. I told myself that he must have forgotten my name, for surely my sister would have told about me.

Then, praise God, it began to rain.

Loving rain, I moved, I chanted, I squeezed the circle shut, coming closer and closer to the terrified congressman.

Then things got good. I opened my mouth as if to speak and heard, from my throat, the words to the poem that had once been Katrina's favorite:

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

It was a fine touch, one certainly orchestrated by the God now working through me.

"Oh my God, Ezra, oh my God. Oh no, no, no, no," my sister wailed, approaching hysteria.

Following another gust of wind, the light on the bed stand nearly went out, and I said, this time right to Max-I was no more than two feet from him--"God's here, pretty boy."

Max stood stock still as I continued to circle, circle, circle, waiting for the right moment.

"Why?" Max sobbed. "Oh, my sweet Jesus, why?"

I stopped. Surely, I reasoned, he knew. Then my mouth was opened by an unseen entity, and I continued the song:

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

I finished. The universe grew still. Rain pounded the roof, and the wind stopped. Katrina sobbed. Max looked sick, his eyes pleading and pathetic.

"Hold your arms over your head, senator," I commanded, tightening my grip on the sword.

Slowly, sobbing, drooling, he did as I asked.

It was wonderful, actually: my sword flashing forward, certainly of its own divine power, slicing with Godly might into and through Max's left rib cage, stopping somewhere near the thin man's backbone. I felt born out of myself.

"Snicker-snack, snicker-snack!" I remember snapping out the words.

Max stood and swayed, weapon embedded in his stout body.

"Snicker-snack!" I yelled again, ecstatic.

Curiously, he tried to walk but slipped in the pool of blood forming around his feet, collapsing onto his side. Seconds later, he gasped his last.

Astounded and thrilled, I looked back at my sister, who was slightly spattered as I was in blood. Her long, thin hands grasped the sides of her head, and her mouth was wide open but soundless.

I crouched over the corpse and withdrew the sword. Then I faced Katrina and watched her slide out of bed and walk over to her dead Max. Gentle as a dove, she knelt and took the body in her arms. The pool of blood encircled Katrina and Max.

Much later, Katrina set the corpse gently on the floor. She had done weeping. She stood, turned lifeless eyes upon me, stepped out of the pool of blood and walked over to and sat on the edge of the bed.

It was time for me to speak.

"Ought to get cleaned up, Kat," I said, walking to the corner of the room and sitting in the green and wooden straight-backed chair that Katrina had taken from our parent's house. I lay the sword on the floor.

She slowly stood and faced me. In the dim-light cast by her night light and a small wall light across the room, she looked grotesquely stunning: long raven hair matted in blood, and face, breasts, arms, stomach and legs streaked in it. Her pubic hair was soaked.

I prayed then that before another twenty-four hours elapsed she would pledge herself to me forever.

And so we remained facing each other, speechless, for the rest of that night, the rain pounding the house.

By mid-morning, Katrina seemed to come to her senses.

"What now?" she said in a monotone.

Always the tidy one, I told her that the place had to be cleaned, the bed sheets changed, the floor mopped, the carpet scrubbed, and the walls cleaned. And so, after wrapping Max's corpse in several old blankets from the hallway closet, we got to work. By five that afternoon, we had restored the room to something approaching normal.

The next step was to dispose of Max's body: bury it somewhere, toss it over a cliff, or burn it.

When evening fell, after we had eaten some leftovers from the refrigerator, we hauled the body to the trunk of Katrina's car, which was parked in her garage. Then, locking up, we left the house and drove.

IV. Two days later, in a small park somewhere north of Vancouver, I buried Katrina next to Max.

As I sit here in my living room in my small farmhouse in northern Canada and watch the snowfall, I vividly remember Katrina's final moment. We had gotten off the freeway and were driving into a heavily forested park where I figured we could bury the body. I had assured her several times on the drive that I loved her as much as God loved her, but she refused to respond.

And so, driving Katrina, I prayed again, asking the Good Lord what to do.

I remember taking a winding dirt road to the left and driving several miles before coming to the garden that I knew we would find. It was a beautiful place, something out of a storybook.

While I dug the grave and buried the body, Katrina stood next to me and watched, more or less, her gaze never seeming to focus on anything. A millions miles from me, she wore a red dress with nothing on underneath.

I began limping back to the car. When she did not follow, I knew I would never get Katrina back, and I knew how this thing should end. Opening the trunk, I threw in the shovel and took out the sword, which I had cleaned before leaving Katrina's house, and uttered a silent lamentation. Then, with a heavy heart, I hobbled back towards my sister.

Katrina had not moved. Her back was to me, her raven hair cascading down her back, and she was standing over the senator's grave.

The time had come. We both knew it.

"Use both hands to pull your hair up off your neck," I said.

Slowly, without so much as acknowledging me, she did as she was told, tying her hair in a knot on the top of her head, then dropping her arms limply to her sides.

"Kneel," I said, softly.

She knelt, sobbing.

I used the point of the blade to slit her dress down the back. The dress fell to her knees, and I studied her gorgeous ass for a moment.

"Snicker-snack," she said, faintly.

"Snicker-snack," I said back.

"Slithy tove," she breathed.

As I raised the sword, the rain began. Weeping for the only person I had ever truly loved, I let the great Godly weapon of execution fall. The sword sang, severing head from body in one clean stroke. I am sure Katrina felt no pain. In the downpour I knelt, held her body for a time, then dug the second grave.

I buried the head along with the body.

V. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, son, and so, years and years later, here I am, living in a small community in northern Canada. For nine months of the year, it's colder than blazes up here, but I don't mind. I've come to like the cold. Besides, I've got my Bible and my church, just down the road about ten miles. Of course, I changed my name long ago.

When I'm not preaching or dreaming of Katrina, I work as a carpenter. Most of the new houses in this area-I guess there are only three or four of them-are ones I built. As I limpingly approach my end, I'll continue to build, study the word, and pray.

My prayers, of course, are about Katrina. I like to think that Katrina died with a pure heart, but I'll never know until the Lord calls me home. When I do enter the Kingdom, and I shall enter boldly, I can only hope that Katrina is waiting for me.

+++

bio: A professor of English teaching in Las Vegas, Rich Logsdon has published over one hundred and fifty stories on and off the net. His specialty is horror. He is also editor of the small print literary magazine Red Rock Review: he has authored four college text books; and he is coeditor of Las Vegas Stories, forthcoming from the University of Nevada Press.

Look for his upcoming request for submission to an anthology titled Burning Angels!