Picture this: you’re all alone in the kitchen, pan-frying some tilapia and already salivating at how it’ll pair with that homemade lemon-caper sauce, and your phone starts blaring an alarm which makes you jump and shit, you just dropped the jar you were carrying, the one with all the human intestines. Now you’ve gotta shut the stove off and push dinner back by fifteen minutes to clean all the glass shards and unnamed fluids from the kid you dismembered a few hours ago, and it’s all thanks to the Amber Alert about that same kid.
Let’s break this down, alright? Little Jenny’s been gone for almost twenty-four hours by now. What were the parents thinking, waiting that long before calling the police—it wasn’t like she was taking her time on a half-day walk back from the local library. And don’t act all surprised that she’s already dead—I ain’t gonna take her to Six Flags before doing the deed, am I? I’m a busy guy, and I’ve got shit to do. You wanna know where Jenny is? I had to reach past the rest of the pickled organs to get to the almond milk earlier, and the bulk of the meat’s in the freezer. She’s a goner, dude, so stop with the damn alarm.
If I’m to be honest, I don’t get what the big deal is in the first place. Kids go missing all the time, and I bet it’s occasionally not even related to the local serial killer. Imagine if the sheriff’s office wanted you to know about every other little inane part of suburban life—you don’t see county-wide alarms going off for every corporate job promotion, or even every time Lebron sinks a three-pointer, do you? It’s almost enough to make me want to mail in pictures of the body the next time they’re about to send out another alert, save us all the trouble—if I have my schedule right, that’ll be Friday next week.
