She lifted the coil of stuff and it was sticky. After spreading a sheet of newsfax on the rug, she allowed the grey tubing to unroll itself out onto the fax sheet. There was no sense ruining a good rug with any odd chemicals from this Kit. She had always been a methodically neat woman, and just because she was doing what she was doing, was no reason to become a crude slob-like Carl
The coil unrolled and it had queer blotches on it, almost like military camouflage canvas. What it was, she still could not ascertain.
“Take some article of clothing belonging to the intended victim,” the pamphlet voice continued, startling her, “and place a small piece of it firmly against the Animaux Tube, on the orange blotch near its front. Press it, and it will adhere. Then inflate the Tube by blowing gently and evenly into the nozzle. Only after the Animaux Tube has been inflated should the Essence then be added. Screw the vial of Essence onto the air valve and allow it to drain completely into the Animaux Tube. Make certain that every drop enters. You will then have your Animaux rabid dog. Set the dog loose when the intended victim is near and it will inflict a bite wound that cannot be cured by regular methods; a bite wound that will cause violent death within a matter of minutes.”
She used one of his socks, holding it as far away from her as possible. It was hideously pungent and ripe after only one wearing. The dog itself took shape quickly. The Tube seemed to retain the air blown into it; there was no blowback.
The surge of anticipation turned her hands clumsy when she hooked the Essence to the blown-up Tube and a few drops spilled onto the newsfax underneath it.
The thing moved softly. It looked for all the world like a medium-sized mongrel dog of no apparent lineage. It limped toward the door and stood there whining, its jaws slavering hideously. “Not for a few more minutes,” she told it soothingly, afraid of it herself, yet exhilarated by what she was doing, what was to be done soon enough. “He won’t be getting off the slipway for a few minutes.” She spent the time neatly hiding the rest of the Kit and the now-silent pamphlet in her clothes closet, at the bottom of a moth-proof garment safette. Then, when it was time, she let the dog out.
Carl came gruffily into the house, cursing foully, and her heart sank.
The hairy arms surrounded her like a scratching womb, and she stood passively hoping for a blast of lightning that would char him on the spot, and damn the rug damage! She could smell his teeth rotting in his bead. “Damn dog tried t’bite me when I got offa the expresswalk. Thing musta been sick.” He nodded proudly, “Kicked it an’ the sonofabitch died right there. Real soggy mess,” and he laughed imbecilically. “Never even touched me.”
The next morning, as soon as he had slipped to work, as soon as she had watched the slipway carry him out of sight over the horizon to the Bactericidal Dome, she went to get the Do-It-Yourself Murder Kit. She took the Kit from its hiding place at the bottom of the moth-proof garment safette, and carried it into the dining nook. She was really annoyed; this Kit had not cost a pittance, and she wanted value for her money.
She punched herself a second cup of coffee—black with Saccha—and opened the pamphlet again.
“If you failed,” the booklet began, as though anticipating her anger, “it was, as I warned you, through human error, and not on the part of this Kit. Was your murder a success?”
“No!” she answered, in a consummate pique.
The pamphlet was silent for an instant, as though refraining from taking offense. Then it began: “If you have not succeeded, attribute your failure to one of the following:
“One. You snagged your Animaux Tube and it was not fully inflated, or later lost air.
“Two. You did not allow the Essence to fill the Tube completely. Perhaps you spilled a portion. “Three. You prepared your rabid dog for the scent improperly.
“Four. You did not attach your Essence vial properly, causing irreparable damage from leakage. “Well, does one of these fit your case?”
The pamphlet waited, and she remembered the few drops of substance that had trickled free in her eagerness to set the dog loose on Carl. She mumbled something.
“What?” asked the pamphlet.
“I said: I spilled some!” she confessed loudly, shamefacedly, toying with the sip-tip of her coffee bulb. “Ah so,” the pamphlet agreed. “Undoubtedly, certain vital organs were not properly formed and stabilized, thus causing a malfunction of the pseudo-beast.”
Recollections formed of the evening before, and she saw the rabid animal again, froth dripping from its viciously-spiked jaws…limping and whining. So that was it. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She would follow the instructions more carefully in the future.
Madge Rubichek was a methodical woman.
“What do I do now?” she asked.
The pamphlet seemed to make a snickering sound, as if it were acknowledging her loss of annoyance at it, and her own recognized sense of failure, her inferiority. It might be said the pamphlet was its own brand of snob. Then its snideness disappeared, and the booklet advised, “Remove the Deadly Nightshade from your Kit. Be careful not to spread it out. Repeat, do not unfold it!”
She knew at once what was meant. The black sheet with the horrible feeling of dead flesh. She hesitated to touch it, so repulsive was the tactile impression it offered; nonetheless, she reached into the Kit and brought out the layer of softly-folded, unbelievably black, ghastly-feeling material. She dropped it at her feet. “Are you ready?” asked the pamphlet.
She started violently. It was uncanny the way that thing knew what and when and how and oh well…it was supposed to, wasn’t it? But so creepy
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent. Now this second method allows less room for Human error. However, it is more dangerous, and more complex. Your three methods of murder are offered in order of increasing effort and danger. Sequentially, they are held so the simplest can be allowed to work first, thus denying the element of failure and discovery as much as possible.
“Your Deadly Nightshade is nearly flawless. If you follow my instructions to the exact letter precisely—and I cannot stress this enough—you will have accomplished your desire by morning.
“Your Deadly Nightshade is a copyrighted, patented—” and it reeled off, in a bored voice, a string of Guatemalan Patent Authority designates, “—exclusive with the Do-It-Yourself Murder Kit.” She realized at once that the voice was huckstering out of necessity, that it found such commercialism odious, vulgar and tedious.
“It will provide night,” the pamphlet said. “Night for the purpose you seek. Here is how it is used:
“Place it in the bedroom of the one you wish to eliminate. It is very important that this be done precisely as directed. On no account should you, after placing the Deadly Nightshade in the bedroom, re-enter it before the intended victim. The Deadly Nightshade acts as a controlled form of narcolepsy, by the release of hypnotically-keyed visual and mental depressants. The intended victim is cast into a hypnotic spell of long night. In three days he or she will sleep all life away. The room will be a place of perpetual darkness to him or her and slowly the vital bodily functions will fail and cease, beginning with the flow of blood to the brain.
“However, it is very important that you place the Nightshade in the intended’s room evenly and without wrinkles, stretching it out under the bed or somewhere else where it will escape observation. And…you must not re- enter the room once you have placed the Deadly Nightshade. Exposure begins once the sheet is spread.”
She shook it out like a chenille bedspread and laid it out neatly, placing it very carefully under the bed, once again precautionarily laying out newsfax to avoid any later unpleasantness to the floor. She tidied the bed, tucking nicely, the blankets as tight as those on the bunk of an army King/Sgt. She spread the Deadly Nightshade in a tight, wrinkle-free sheet.