Fuss (18+)

Larsson - no wonder Karlsson had a heart attack! xx

Ingrid Larsson’s arm went numb as she lay on her side enfolded by Karlsson’s powerful bronze bicep. Her tender moment, she called it, a pleasant tingling sensation which bristled into a pink rash over her body. She snuggled against Karlsson’s chest and snygged his shining nipple. Thrilled by the brush of her thin lips across his areola, he probed the inverted dusky rose nipples on her little breasts with his baby fingers, surprising, if not pleasing, her with the softness of their touch. His hand wandered, caressing her slim tummy, lightly fingering her shallow navel. Ingrid cocked her leg up like a poodle so that her man could feel her sacred mound. She was bald, bikini-bare, plucked as cleanly as a parson’s nose, and wet. Karlsson gave her outer lips a quick rub, then drew her slender leg upwards, teasing his erection, resting her thigh upon his flat, six-pack stomach. Larsson treasured their satisfying silent interludes before j?vla runt: the swelling of her puffy breasts, her tingling insides, the pounding heartbeat, her sublime arousal.

She was about to have sex.

Impatient for Karlsson’s proud flesh, she shifted position, flexing her hips to encourage the flow of her blood. This time Karlsson didn’t move. He just made a terrible croaking noise, exhaled loudly, and gazed at Ingrid with a vacant expression panda-eyed, his face greyed with exhaustion.

‘Are you alright, ?lskling?’ she said.

Karlsson didn’t reply. Larsson held her ear to his mouth and listened. He wasn’t breathing. She sprang up and knelt beside him. Her first aid training kicked in. Tilting back his weighty head, Ingrid pinched his nostrils, sealed his mouth with hers, and gave him her kiss of life. His chest rose then fell. She remained calm, resting her head on his chest, listening for his heartbeat, pressing the side of his neck with her fingertips. He didn’t show Ingrid any vital signs of life. She pushed down hard with both hands, compressing his chest, pumping at his heart, listening to his death rattle as he faded.

‘You cannot just die, sötnos!’

Ignoring her, Karlsson’s inert head lolled lazily to the left. His eyeballs rolled around like marbles on a human bagatelle board. Desperately, she pumped his heart. She snygged him. Listened. Felt him. Then she gave up, erupting in floods of tears. Her incredible muscleman had just died, seemingly from a massive heart attack. Her organised mind shattered into micro-shards of angst, unable to accept the startling truth…Ingrid had killed Karlsson using j?vla runt.

Olsson wound down the window and lit another cigarette, her tenth that night. Chain smoking had blanched her face a greenish-white, leaving it cracked like a crumbling stone angel. She lowered the jeep’s cerise sun visor and appraised her run-down self in the vanity mirror. Olsson’s shrivelled face reminded her of the many desiccated corpses that she had seen in her sheltered life: dried out and pallid, the dead skin drawn back in a death mask, as far as the ears.

Her greasy, straight, brown hair was pulled taut, strictly parted down the middle, harshly swept over her cauliflower ears in a vain attempt to convey a look of innocence and purity. Nothing could be further from the truth. The excess of self-imposed abuse left Olsson looking spent and ill.

She flicked ash onto the tarmac. The coal-dirty habit, its cloying tar, would scar her tortured lungs for life. The nicotine had stained her fingertips brimstone yellow. Olsson endured her persistent smoker’s cough. Then there were the glues she sniffed. The permanent runny nose. The red-raw sores above her curling upper lip. Her tell-tale, blood-shot eyes with their dusky brown surrounds. She sucked heavily on the butt, coughing up her phlegm, then sipped a low-calorie, high energy drink. The jeep’s footwell was littered with stay-awake cans.

Olsson pictured Gustafsson, her hairy gorilla: his fat-bellied, buddha-body turned off by his archetypal, snoring, bean-pole mate, Hansson. Dreaming of their next illicit liaison.

Her thoughts returned to the young woman. Larsson’s nightly misdemeanours had become predictable. She had dropped her guard, her confidence increasing as quickly as her obsession with Karlsson. Larsson left the historic coaching inn annexe at five-thirty every morning via the car park exit, walked through the Tudor arch, crossed the empty high street, and waited for the bus to take her to work.

Ingrid slumped on the bed; her tired head sunk in the softly scented pillows. A grey light filtered through the gap in the heavy beige curtains. It would soon be dawn. Her next shift started at seven. The corpse lay stretched out beside her: bluing, primarily flaccid, its muscles relaxed, chilling her to her senses. She stared longingly at the mini-bar. Need a stiff drink, she mused, a brandy to help me think straight, but dismissed the notion at once. How could she go to work reeking of spirit? Anyways, Larsson needed a clear head to think this mess through.

Her next move would determine the extent to which she was implicated in the forensic investigation, the scandal. Larsson imagined the headlines, online in as little as eight hours’ time, and thumped Karlsson’s enormous pecs.

‘Why did you have to go and die on me, hjartat?’ she sobbed.

Ingrid knew why. She had pushed her man too far, taken him over the edge, and killed him. The fact that Karlsson was super-fit was irrelevant. Hadn’t she scrubbed a dead footballer with a heart defect? Dealt with a marathon runner, a fine young athlete, who fell at the finish line? Consoled the grieving parents of a three-year-old boy who died of a hole-in-the-heart? Larsson knew the risks, let Karlsson ride her all-night roller coaster, and he crashed.

She couldn’t think straight. Chewed her nails. Rubbed her eyes. Felt shattered. Her twelve-hour shift ended ten hours ago. Larsson hadn’t slept a wink since. Meticulously, she set about removing every trace of herself. As if their night of passion never happened.

Olsson was a messed-up wretch who lacked the willpower to quit the habit that would soon kill her. She wiped her frothy mouth on her ash grey tee-shirt, lit another cigarette, and took a drag. Olsson allowed herself to descend into this abyss because living like a parasite off the deceit of others gave her a high. She lived her life on the edge for the thrills.

Opening the glove compartment, she drew out a crumpled file and flicked through the pages, contemplating her forthcoming assignment with relish. Stapled to the front page was a high-definition image of Larsson, illustrating her distinguishing facial characteristic: the frozen, blank expression that she could put on at will, like a masque. Appended to the photograph was a bullet-point summary of Olsson’s findings to date, for her aggrieved client, Sveinsson’s, reference:

Confidential Client Summary

Name: Ingrid Jo Larsson. Age: 25.Status: single.Nationality: Swedish.

Facials: round ice-blue eyes spaced wide apart, flat, freckled nose, dimpled cheeks, wavy shoulder-length blonde hair, pale complexion, full set of teeth, thin lips, baby-face, puppy ears.

Physique: slim, medium height, long neck and limbs, fit, in good general health.

Lives: council flat above Dick’s Fish Bar: Flat 3, Flatfield Terrace, East Green.

Background: born in Falun, Dalarna, Sweden, 17^th June 1993. Mother, Elsa, 57, lectures in English Literature at Dalarna University. Father, Erik, 65, is retired, a former miner at local copper mine. Brother Oscar, 28, works in IT, single, lives with parents.

Education: Pigeon Lake Private Regional Primary, Secondary, High Schools. Studied Medicine at Dalarna University, never finished the course. Larsson dropped out, left home, and moved to England in search of work. 

Karlsson was covered in Larsson’s DNA. She grabbed a fistful of floral tissues from a box by the bed, pulled off his spent condom, then padded to the bathroom to flush him down the toilet. The sign over the heated towel rail asked guests to re-use the towels and save the environment or place them in the bath. There were phials of shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, soap tablets. Karlsson had left his washbag on the glass vanity shelf. Larsson emptied it out, returning to the bed laden with robe, towels, flannels, gels, soap, toothpaste, brush, inter-dents. As she arranged everything on the pine sideboard, she checked her watch. If Larsson didn’t hurry, she would be late for work.

A wine cooler, complete with upturned bottle of Prosecco and dirty flutes kissed with pink lipstick, stood on the smoked-glass coffee table. Beside the half-eaten dishes, they chose from the pillow menu: prime fillet steak in brandy, cream and green peppercorn sauce, thick-cut chips, sautéed mushrooms. Ingrid’s heart sank at the thought of all the washing up.

Larsson carried the cooler to the bathroom, filled it with hot, sudsy water, and returned to the bed. Karlsson’s dead eyes were staring at a dead moth stuck in a spider’s web on the ceiling. Quickly, she shut its eyes, soaked the flannel, washed its face, neck and ears, and patted it dry. Ingrid inter-dented the masticated morsels of meat from the gaps between its teeth, and set off the electric toothbrush. The wash bag contained a small bottle of spearmint mouthwash. She topped up Karlsson’s throat with all the finesse of a driver refilling her car windscreen wash. Once the corpse had swallowed, Ingrid dabbed its mouth, wanting to hold its sad head in her hands and kiss it, in death. Not for the first time, she wondered if she really loved the childhood sweetheart from Pigeon Lake who she found again on Tinder.

Karlsson was six-feet tall and weighed fifteen stone. Larsson possessed the strength to roll it. Not to drag it off the bed, traverse the carpet, and dump it in the bath. There wasn’t time. In any case it wasn’t necessary to bathe it when a simple bed bath would suffice. She spread a bath towel out on the bed, rolled it onto its front and washed it thoroughly, drying it with a fresh towel. Next, she spread a second bath towel, flipped Karlsson on its front, rinsed and dried it with a hand towel.

Larsson soaked, rinsed and wrung all the towels. And left them in the bath. Once she had washed the dishes, Ingrid was ready for a well-earned shower. Only then did she realise, she had used up all the towels. She showered, dried off in her robe, cleaned her teeth, combed her hair, pulled on a white t-shirt, blue denims, grey belt and trainers. And packed her overnight bag.

As Larsson left, she took one last loving look at Karlsson. She had forgotten to strip off the sheet and pillow cases. It was all too much. She fell to her knees: heartbroken, distraught, distrait...

Larsson missed her bus. Olsson watched her leave the hotel. Her head was down. Why? A lovers’ tiff? Had they split? Interesting! For the first time since she saw Karlsson check-in she relaxed. Olsson returned to her room for some much-needed sleep. An alarm call would wake her at ten when she made her daily call to the client. Then she would shower, dress, eat brunch in the buttery, settle the bill, and drive to Larsson’s flat.

*****

The nurse lay out the corpse with dignity and respect. She donned a face mask, a disposable apron and primrose-yellow nitrile gloves, then began her morbid ministrations. Her first task was to scrub it with hot, soapy water from crown to carbuncle. It was hard work. Perspiring, she raked the strands of wet, flaxen hair off her young face and brushed its teeth, mollifying its cadaveric features.

She lathered and shaved the face of faint swarth until its waxy skin felt smooth. She combed its blonde hair. As she taped its gunmetal blue eyes, a single tear trickled down its left cheek. The slab-muscled corpse lay cold, supine. Quickly, the nurse straightened its stiff limbs, dressed it in clean pyjamas and wrapped it in a crisp white sheet and counterpane.

*****

Sveinsson, resplendent in her putty short-sleeve shirt and white slacks, betrayed no signs of emotion as she was ushered into the private room. The hospital staff clearly attended to every detail when they conducted last offices on the deceased. The cubicle was spotless. There was a small locker next to the bed. Sveinsson sighed as she placed the picture of two newlyweds, their hands clasping a bone-handled knife as they cut the three-tier wedding cake, and a single red rose beside the bed.

The nurse offered the bereaved a curved black eco-chair. Sveinsson shook her head, saying that she preferred to stand, and wasn’t planning on staying long. Feeling distinctly queasy, she chewed her lip, dry retching as the nurse drew back the veil. She glanced at the cadaverous Karlsson. To her profound astonishment, its pyjamas, sheet and counterpane were missing. Someone had kissed an ellipse of pink lipstick on its forehead.

She was stunned! Her stomach churned!

She leaned forward and read the two inscriptions. On its rigid ring finger, the stiff corpse of Karlsson wore a shiny signet ring with the insignia: IL. On its right breast, there was a message, tattooed in italics: Wild for You! Bile rose up in Sveinsson’s dry throat. She scanned the nurse’s face which was scary, blank and expressionless. Then the nurse spoke:

‘Do you like Toblerone?’

Sveinsson felt her ears pop, ‘Do I what?’

‘I said: Do you like Toblerone? He told me to ask you?’

‘No!’

Sveinsson spun on her high heels, flew out of the room and clacked down the long, bland, chocolate-lime corridor. Past the bustling WRVS Shop, the ailing and well. Past the Chapel of Rest, the cool dead. Past the Morgue, the frozen dead. Out into the flaming hot sun.

The playing fields were a short walk from the Infirmary. They stretched as far as her eyes could see, surrounded by tall hedgerows and young trees. Sveinsson followed a narrow footpath until she reached the boarded-up, red-brick sports pavilion. The place reeked of decay. Its walls were sprawled with graffiti. The gutter had given way where kids tried to climb onto the roof. There were signs with illegible, cracked lettering, flaking, whitewashed walls, smashed lights. The blackwood door to the Ladies Toilet was padlocked.

Overhanging the ruins was a majestic oak tree in full, leafy summer splendour. Lying within its shade: a slatted park bench. Sveinsson slumped on the hot metal and rubbed her inflamed cheeks. Still suffering from severe shock, she extracted a miniature from her bucket bag and downed the contents in one. She could never forgive Karlsson for what he did to her. How might she repay him? Fortified by brandy, she finalised a symbolic act of revenge.

The rubbish bin next to the bench was overflowing with sticky, yukky, ice cream wrappers, crawling with drunken wasps. Loathe to disturb them, she slipped the empty bottle into her handbag, drew out her phone and selected mail. Normally, Sveinsson sent all invasive adverts direct to junk mail. Today was anything but a normal day.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a man’s voice.

‘Are you alright? Do you need help?’ he said.

Sveinsson looked up at his silhouette, shielding her eyes from the intense glare of the sun. He was wearing a navy-blue tee-shirt, sunshades, faded denims, and had a disturbed look in his eyes.

‘I’ll be fine thanks,’ she replied.

He sat down, and moved closer to her. ‘My name is Johansson. Are you sure I can’t help?’

Sveinsson panicked. Who was this man? What did he want?

‘I’m fine thanks very much,’ she said, smiling back appreciatively. 

His head turned to face her. Its piercing stare sent ice-cold shivers down her spine, chilling off the heat of the midday sun. He started to cry. She looked around in desperation. Other than Persson, the elderly gubben, walking his black pug, Andersson, in the distance, the park was deserted. The young Swedes sat in silence. Even the restless starlings ceased their twitter in the hedgerows.

Inexplicably, Johansson stood up, said, ‘I’ll be on my way then,’ and disappeared.

Sveinsson perched on the bench shaking involuntarily, despite the skin-burning heatwave. Once she had regained her composure she stared at the screen. The e-mail was marked: Unread.

From: [email protected]

Sent: 26/07/2018 – 10:13

To: [email protected]

Subject: A simple funeral without fuss

Are you looking for a simple alternative to a traditional funeral for less than the cost of a new car? We are here to help you to arrange a funeral the way you want it to be and we think that means a funeral without fuss. No Fuss are refreshingly different from traditional funerals. We offer you an affordable option that gives you the freedom to remember your dearly departed loved one in your own special way. Why not call into your nearest funeral home today for a chat about the choices available and find out what’s right for you, or call us.

Benny Persson

Sales Director

No Fuss

She rang them: ‘I’d like to arrange a funeral without fuss. I understand you offer a cheaper option without a service, mourners, urn, memorial plaque or floral tributes. Cremation would be perfect, thanks. I’d like to pay by card. Here are my details...’

No Fuss Funerals met her and talked through all of the options. Sveinsson was so relieved that they offered a cremation-only service. It was exactly right, given Karlsson’s smouldering sex with young Nurse Larsson. Thanks to the professionalism, integrity and discretion shown by the woodland body-burners, Sveinsson was able to dispose of Karlsson expediently, without the recognition, celebration and gratitude associated with a formal funeral.

‘Is there anyone else I can assist you with today?’ Gustafsson asked.

Sveinsson nodded her sorry, blonde head, deep in thought.

The next e-mail she received from No Fuss was marked: Confidential.

From: [email protected]

Sent: 10/08/2018 – 15:42

To: [email protected]

Subject: Your order

Dear Ms Holly Sveinsson,

Thank you for choosing No Fuss Funerals for the expedient disposal of Mr Odin Karlsson in your own special way. We do hope you choose No Fuss again… when your time comes.

Yours sincerely,

Ernst Gustafsson and Britt Olsson

Funeral Directors

No Fuss

Watch this short video link and see how we prepared and presented Miss Ingrid Larsson prior to her scenic woodland cremation: >>>