Harry Jarry

     Hairy Jarry. Squatch man. Gorilla arms. I always hated the fuckwits I work with on Tuesdays that call me that shit. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four.
     The floor tiles are uneven…
     “You alright?” asked Bryce as he took a bite out of his burger. “You’re spacing out a little there.”
     “Oh, yeah. I’m good. Building up the courage to ask Bridget out. I’m just feeding my brain worms.”
     “You’ve gotta stop calling it that, man. We all get insecure.” Bryce crinkled his nose in mock ridicule. “But you are obsessed with that girl. Are you actually going to talk to her this time, or are you gonna pussy out again?”
     “Of course I will. You just watch!”
     “Happy to watch now, my guy. I just saw her walk through the front door.”
     My neck whipped around to the front of the restaurant.
     Shit.
     The greasy fast-food fry stopped halfway to my mouth as I watched the most beautiful woman I’d ever known order at the register. Her auburn hair and deep ochre eyes made my heart skip a beat every time.
     “Well?”
     I ground my teeth and clenched my palms. “…Yeah, yeah. I’m going.”
     I felt my heart pumping harder and harder the with every step forward. My hands shook. My knees wobbled. My speech came out in a foreign cadence.
     “Hi, my name’s Jared.”
     She smiled. “Hi, Jared. Haven’t I seen you around before?”
     “Yeah, we uh— work at the same munitions factory. Just in different departments.”
     “That’s right! You’re the cute guy I’ve seen down in assembly.”
     “Ah— yes. That is, er—”
     “What a coincidence that we went to the same place for lunch.”
     “Haha, yeah. Well, not that coincidental. You eat here almost twice a week. And you live pretty close by.”
     She paused. “…Pardon me?”
     “Uh, yeah. I can see you walk here from the factory.”
     “The factory is windowless…”
     “Oh, no. I was outside.”
     “…”
     “So anyways, I was wondering. Would you want to catch a movie or something with me later?”
     Bridget looked at every floor and wall around her, but never back up at me. “Ah, that’s— Don’t take this the wrong way, I just—” She crossed her arms, still avoiding my eyes. “You’re just a little… hairy, for me. I guess.”
     That word. Hairy. It echoed through my ears, knocking around in my skull and pulling the wires loose. Apparently, the hurt showed on my face because the next thing she said was: “Ah, no. I just mean I don’t think we’d get on that well… I’m sorry.”
     The cashier called her name, she grabbed her food, and then she left quickly without looking back. The next day, I could barely bring myself to work. I saw Bridget a couple times, but she avoided me like I was some kind of obsessive stalker. Whatever.
     Back at my station, I picked up the fuel canister for the flamethrower I was working on. Whatever.
     I plugged it haphazardly into the gun. Whatever.
     It didn’t click. Whatever.
     I prepped the uncased ignition coil. Whatev— The fuel canister popped out of place.
     Suddenly, flamethrower fuel coated my arm. In my surprise, the ignition coil slipped, and one thing led to another. I was rushed to the ER screaming in pain from the searing burns. It took eighty-three full seconds for an extinguisher to put out the flames.
     For the next three months, I was in and out of the hospital. The doctors told me that after the fourth month, my skin would pretty much be back to normal, but the hair would never grow back. The fuel had burned it down to the dermis.
     Work was more-or-less the same, but I was much more careful with the flamethrowers, and Bridget was actually paying attention to me! She was piteous of my injury and seemed to forget about the restaurant debacle. Every time she checks my injury up close, the swell of her breasts presses against me.
     I need her.
     She still wasn’t interested, though. I could tell. Her eyes were still caution. Her movements were still wariness. Feeding the brainworms.
     If only I wasn’t so hairy! Fuck!
     Then, one day, I was looking at the bald spot on my arm and realized exactly what I had to do.
     Over the next few months, flamethrower fuel mysteriously went missing, bit by bit. There was talk about who or what was responsible, but nothing solid ever surfaced.
     Then, it was done.

     I have to work fast. The fuel will evaporate if I don’t work quickly.
     Lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock, unlock. Enter, exit, enter. After finishing my normal routine, I stepped into the bathroom, the materials already waiting in the tub.
     Four canisters should be enough. I can jam my knife in and pour. Just a small step over the bathtub wall.
     One.
     Immediately, the heavy, diesel-like scent fills the air. I pour it over my chest.
     Two.
     Next, my legs and feet. The fumes are almost too much to bear.
     Three.
     My back. It’s starting to burn on its own. I’ve got to hurry.
     Four.
     I am completely soaked from my neck down. Bridget will finally be mine. Now, all that’s left to do is to
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