Herman the Hermit's Blueberry Muffin Recipe
Dry Ingredients
1.5 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon baking powder
Couple shakes of salt
Wet Ingredients
1/3 cup unsweetened applesauce
1 egg
1/2 cup whole milk
Exactly 60 fresh blueberries
Directions
Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Combine dry and wet ingredients in separate bowls, then mix everything together. Add milk if too thick. Divide batter evenly in a greased, 12-muffin pan. Place exactly five blueberries onto the top of each muffin. DO NOT MIX THE BLUEBERRIES INTO THE BATTER DIRECTLY. Bake for 15 minutes, and then check for doneness with a toothpick. Allow one hour for muffins to cool. Consider the muffins. Enjoy and eat.
"Consider the muffins? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" the man with the scars on his face says after Zandra finishes reading the recipe out loud.
It's been two hours since he led her into the basement of the starter mansion. It's finished, but compared to the rest of the house, it's a scrapyard. He explained to her that Gene had the house built specifically to show a more modest side for his gubernatorial ambitions. It's where he'll host press conferences, officials and other important people, scrubbing away the shine of the sprawling estate he actually sleeps in at night. That's why this house is a modest 10,000 square feet.
A man of the people.
It's also not stocked with food, furniture or much of anything else. It's staged as if it were prepared for a real estate showing, full of sparkle but devoid of life. The cabinets near the 10-burner stove in the kitchen show no sheen of grease.
Useful if 10 drunks wander into the house and they all need to light their cigarettes at the same time. You never know.
As such, the white walls of the basement are as untouched by outside flesh as Gene's limp dick. The air temperature is just right, which Zandra appreciates since she's supposed to spend the next 30 hours leading up to her court appointment here.
Supposed to.
The buzz of an overhead light keeps them awake After the drama of getting to the house died down, things got boring. Quickly. Zandra is shoved into a spot on the most expensive recliner she's ever sat on, which isn't saying much in terms of Gene's wealth. Her companion alternates between a pool table and a sofa across from Zandra.
Lots of time to look at those scars on his face. The thin lines of blood in them crusted over.
I got a good look at the pistol in his right hand, too. It's a Colt 1911, .45 caliber, and he keeps it cocked. He is not fucking around. Just has to aim and pull the trigger to make my head pop.
Can I get to it before he can do that?
"Consider the muffins. Maybe think before you eat? Mindful eating? I'm not sure, either," Zandra says, sans handcuffs, keeping her eyes on the 3x5 card. She can't slip one bit. All observation must happen in the periphery. He's watching her every twitch, hack and crack of the neck.
"Strange for him to write that. I mean, sure, I only knew him for a little bit before I killed him, but I never took him to be a weirdo," the man with the scars on his face says.
He's bored with his job in the same way workers at slaughterhouses become desensitized. Lonely, too. Isolated. Gene pays him well, but there's no way to spend it because of the secrecy. He can't quit, either. He knows too much.
"Really? Nothing about that hermit seemed odd to you?" Zandra says. It's easier to talk about Herman if she doesn't say his name.
The man with the scars on his face shrugs and says, "To be honest, he was in a great mood, even as I was doing the deed."
Thank you, Herman, for denying this prick any satisfaction.
"He was delirious," Zandra says, although she supposes that Herman's Six Reasons has more to do with it.
Maybe Herman knew of a seventh that he didn't tell me about.
"No, he was with it. Completely coherent," the man with the scars on his face says. "Matter of fact, he helped me place the knife before I stuffed his face into the water at Soma Falls."
Only Herman.
"And that doesn't count as strange to you?" Zandra says, squinting her eyes to hide the tears welling up. Even her steel bends at some point.
The man with the scars on his face sighs. He says, "I don't know. Should it?"
I guess when your only interaction with people is when you kill them, you don't get a sense for how they normally act.
"Yes, it's strange, and so is not realizing that that's strange," Zandra says.
"Sorry to cut this short, but I've had to hit the can since we got here. Stay put. I'm going to pee with the door open," the man says.
He walks backward to a nearby bathroom so that Zandra is never out of his sight. He's careful not to knock over the marble pedestals flanking each side of the bathroom door, a design feature apparently not tacky enough for the upstairs of the house. Like all doors in Gene's house, it opens to the inside and outside, for reasons known only to Gene and his interior designer.
Upon entering, Glenn draws the pistol with his left hand and his other pistol with his right. The latter is out of Zandra's sight, but the sound it makes as it unloads into the toilet isn't out of earshot.
I won't move an inch. I'll build trust instead. Show I'm not a threat.
The man zips up and re-holsters, but he neglects to wash his hands. Zandra wonders whether that's out of duty to keeping her put or habit.
Gross.
"Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, I was going to say that I'm glad Gene told me to not kill you. You take the time to explain things," the man says as he returns.
Pulling the strings on this one is going to be a lot easier than I expected. Damaged goods don't need any softening up. Lick their wounds and they'll do anything for you.
"I've got all the time in the world to listen, child," Zandra says.
"Appreciate that. Why were you so mean to me back in the park? When you spit on my shoe?" says the man responsible for the deaths of dozens of people.
He's like a lost kid. I love it.
"It's trust, child. I couldn't trust you. I feel like I can now, though," Zandra says. She rubs her palms together. The heat from the friction feels good. "Why don't we start with you telling me your real name?"
"Only if you tell me yours first," the man with the scars on his face says.
Zandra looks confused. "You don't think Zandra is my real name?"
"It sounds made up."
"I promise you it's not."
"Was it a typo on your birth certificate? Like they meant to write Sandra, and your parents just rolled with it?"
I wonder if he thinks the moon follows him around at night, too.
"No. It's really Zandra. And yours?" Zandra says.
"Glenn," the man with the scars says. Zandra repeats the name back to him.
Perfect. The stage is set. The die is cast. The cliché is used. I will now make good on what started before this dipshit even realized I was working him over.
"Glenn, child, do those scars on your face bother you?" Zandra says in the soothing voice that kept her in business at Sneak Peek.
Glenn, presently scratching his way through a one-man game of nine ball at the pool table, pauses mid-strike. "Is this some sort of trick question?"
Zandra rubs her palms together. "No trick, child. Only treats. I noticed you talking about how your job keeps you from engaging with the world. Do you care to know what I think?"
Ending with questions gives the illusion of choice. Keeps me in control and him primed.
"I guess so," Glenn says.
"I think you use that as cover for the scars. They isolate you. They make you feel different. And I think you can sense the repulsion some people have when you try to approach them, even if you're being friendly," Zandra says. Before Glenn can reply, she raises a palm and interjects. "There's no need to get defensive. I see this in you because I know the feeling myself."
Glenn lays the pool cue down across the table and says, "I don't want to say you're right."
"Then don't say it, child. Just know I can see through those scars. You wish others could, too," Zandra says.
Glenn sighs.
We'll call this a reverse Stockholm Syndrome. Make the captor sympathetic to the captive.
The scars and his stories of loneliness weren't enough by themselves. Too general, too easy. The aftershave, however, signaled a feeble attempt at building rapport in the zeitgeist. It's too cheap and too popular with people half his age. It's like a parent trying too hard to like their child's music to seem cool. He's trying to compensate for the scars. It doesn't matter if he's doing it intentionally or subconsciously, at least to me.
Now for the other part: the blood on the scars.
Put simply, there are three general types of scars: hypertrophic, keloid and contractures.
Hypertrophic scars contain collagen that stays within the boundaries of the wound. On the other hand, keloid scars spread that collagen beyond the borders of the wound. Contractures form where skin is missing completely to "glue" the remaining skin together. This makes the skin tight.
Zandra doesn't know these medical terms, but she does recognize Glenn's contracture scars as being too tight for comfort. The thin creases of blood confirm that.
Since this isn't the Stone Age, Glenn could've gone for a skin graft to take some of the pressure off those scars. Gene certainly has the money. So why hasn't he?
"Gene likes those scars, doesn't he? Makes you more intimidating," Zandra says. She bolts her eyes to Glenn's. "But you, child, you hate those scars. You know you could get help with them, but Gene made it clear that can never happen. Isn't that right, child?"
It's several seconds before Glenn can nod.
"The same gifts that allow me to see these things can help you with more, child. Much more. I've received...," Zandra says and blinks as if there's wind in her eyes. "...a message. A special message, just for you. Would you like to know what it says?"
Glenn's at the sofa now, seated and hunched forward with elbows on knees. He signals to go on.
"They, the spirits, can give me the power to make your scars invisible to everyone but you," Zandra says with a raised eyebrow. She hunches forward, too, but she avoids putting too much pressure on her knees. "Would you like me to do that?"
Glenn sniffs. "You'd do that...for me?"
Don't make this hard for me.
"I don't do anything. It's the spirits. They work through me. Now, child, my knife," Zandra says and holds her hand out.
Glenn shakes his head. "You know I can't do that."
"Fine. Take it out and tell me what you see etched into it," Zandra says.
Glenn removes the lawnmower knife from a Kydex sheath on his belt. He rotates it until he spots the sigil Herman made.
"That, child, is how I direct my power. The spirits work through me, and the sigil directs their power. I need the knife if I'm going to do what you want you me to do," Zandra says, keeping the onus on Glenn.
Glenn squeezes the knife's paracord handle. "Can I trust you?"
No.
"Yes," Zandra says. "Think about it. You've got a gun. I've got a bad ankle. Even if I wanted to pull something on you and run away, you'd shoot me dead before I got to the stairs."
Glenn simultaneously hands the lawnmower knife to Zandra and unholsters his pistol. He points the barrel at Zandra. "Go ahead."