Kayla The Drink Cart Killer

By Todd Sentell

Kayla Beaver Sexxx (not quite her real name) was the long-time and hugely popular golf course-roaming drink cart girl at the prestigious Falcon’s Nest Golf Club for the usual reasons.

For a drink cart girl, the usual reasons, which are pretty much the same as the actual job requirements at a monstrously expensive private golf club that attracts local and regional and international multi-millionaire male entrepreneurs drunk on their testosterone and money, as well as young company presidents whose fathers made them the company president way too soon, include unapologetic cigarette smoking; clean fingernails; the occasional and perfectly dropped “f-bomb” in conversations about anything; lots of exotic perfume that wives don’t typically wear; muscular, non-hairy arms; clean and shiny and healthy looking hair; just a little makeup in the right places; a positive and cheerful and dependable attitude; smiling a lot; a sexy voice that was also a little deeper than normal; excellent listening skills; a clean looking tongue; not fat in any way or in any location, except that a mildly plump ass is O.K., but it must be pear shaped; mesmerizing eyes; no meth-addled ex-husbands or needy children to interrupt her life at work; tattoos on the smaller side and in the exact right places; and two big boobs of equal size with nipples like pencil erasers. The boobs could not be flabby and big, however. They had to have an athletic appearance; be always at attention, and the parts you could see when a drink cart girl had her clothes on, if they were lightly glazed with sweat or suntan lotion, was always appreciated and productive for everyone. As for the cleavage … there had to be just a little bit. Enough to instantly project mystery, opportunity, and to serve as a good place to display rolled-up U.S. currency and a cheap cigarette lighter. Big boobs pushed together, it was thought, made male club members think of their grandmothers or old house cleaner women and it wrecked the buzz.

Kayla had been the only drink cart girl in the seven year history of Falcon’s Nest Golf Club and she pretty much made one thousand dollars a day in cash tips because there were some other reasons she was hugely popular in addition to expertly mixing liquor drinks at any time of the day. Kayla naturally possessed a keen business and shark-like sense for personal exploitation of opportunities and attributes to make easy money from rich and drunk men or both at the same time who also loved to purchase cocaine, pain pills, and weed from someone they liked and trusted. The club was closed on Mondays.

Last night, Kayla finally decided that she was going to kill a long list of male members at Falcon’s Nest Golf Club, an award-winning Tom Fazio design, but she didn’t want to get caught or even suspected because she wanted to enjoy the thoughts of the planning, the actual killing of the long list of male members, and the feelings of satisfaction afterwards for the rest of her life, as well as keep her job. Suspected, maybe … for drunk-ass bitch-cred by her drunk-ass friends, but not suspected by the local po-po or the Georgia Bureau of Investigation or the FBI or CIA or whoever. Kayla wasn’t sure at first who would come after you if you killed a long list of male members in the span of a couple of days. Probably all of them. Plus the fire department, too, she figured. They’d probably have to get involved if she did it right.          

A long time ago, when Kayla was majoring in criminology for a while at the local community technical college, she remembered that the professor had said to the class one day that there were a lot of folks who became killers who majored in criminology, you know, if they didn’t start killing before they went to community college, of course, and that there were a whole lot of folks in the history of American crime that were in law enforcement or closely associated with law enforcement who were active killers and who enjoyed killing very much.          

Kayla remembered he paused real dramatically, and then said that there are probably two or three people in this class right now who would become killers one day. When the professor said “Right now,” he had sharply rapped his wooden pointing stick on his lectern … so sharply he broke it. Kayla could tell he was getting even more agitated. She knew his emotions very well. The professor started shouting about how most of you folks start shoplifting and lighting fires in abandoned buildings and throwing innocent kittens out of pick-up trucks at road signs and sticking unnatural things way up your butt for fun.          

Kayla had sat up in her seat just a little bit and widened her eyes.          

The professor looked at everybody as if he suspected everybody, still holding half of his pointing stick. He was taking deep breaths and his eyes were darting around, even up to the ceiling for some reason.

Kayla had looked to her right at the hugely academically-minded Chinese girl … not three weeks in-country … who started to cry and who was helping with her tuition by selling her blood and hair. Then Kayla looked to her left at the constantly-pregnant or post-partum lady … whatever … who made money for college by breastfeeding various babies for other women who had day jobs. The lady was white but today’s baby was black. The baby was sucking on her left nipple and it was making weird moaning noises, too, that Kayla felt she could not ever un-hear. Then Kayla raised her hand. She asked the professor, who she was secretly having extremely nasty sex with every Wednesday night while his wife was at choir practice, if he thought she was going to be a killer one day.          

Miss, no doubt in my mind,” he said.          

Kayla was hoping he might wink at her after that, but he didn’t.

Bio: Todd Sentell was born in Atlanta and raised in Georgia where he lives today.
He’s the author of the lunatic adventure, Toonamint of Champions—How LaJuanita Mumps Got to Join Augusta National Golf Club Real Easy (2007/Kunati Books), nominated for the 2008 Thurber Prize for American Humor.

In Toonamint of Champions, Todd successfully predicted—by five years—that a black woman would be admitted into the membership at Augusta National Golf Club.

Todd’s also the first Georgia native in the salacious literary history of the Peach State to publish a sports-related novel, unless Deliverance is really about canoeing?

Todd is a two-time award winner for magazine feature writing from the Magazine Association of the Southeast.

He’s also the author of the corkscrew funny Can’t Wait to Get There. Can’t Wait to Leave—A Schoolhouse Memoir (2014/Stairway Press).

Read more Flash Fiction at The Yard: Crime Blog

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