New fiction by MARY CROSBIE

Creme De Corpse

Suzanne La Deeda opened her fantastique new salon on a Tuesday. It was a grand fete. Only the best people were there: Zack, Denis, Albert, Francois, Jeanette, Zoe and Claire.

 And tout le monde received complimentary facials and champagne and they all screamed so loud: “Suzanne! How do you look so amazing? Your face should be in Le Louvre!”

 And Suzanne said: “It is, of course, my creme de corpse that makes ma face so mangnifique!”

 And they laughed when Suzanne said “corpse”. They thought she was making joke of double entendre, and how very old she was but that her skin was young like a suckling bebe.  

 But, non. Non joke. Suzanne really did make her creme from corpses that are in the basement. The fat man corpse and the Spanish flamenco dancer’s corpse were supere creme!

 “Such good creme!” sighed Zoe, as she lathered the creme on her tits.

 What a crazy fete. But when you get Parisians in a room, it is de rigueur. It is decadant. It is also smoky. Everyone smoked at least two cigarettes at one time!  

 But Denis was not smoking cigarettes. He was not eating fromage. He was too curieux. “Why is the creme blood red, and look like blood, and taste like blood?” he wondered aloud, filling his pipe with cigarettes. He could fit four or five cigarettes in his pipe. It just made more sense.

 Denis cornered Suzanne by the brie and asked her pointe blanc, “Suzanne, did you kill again?”  

 Suzanne distracted Denis by sticking her tongue in his mouth. Her tongue was like a snake du jardin but tasted of the creme. Denis was disgusted. He spat on the floor. He ate some foie gras to get the taste of creme out of his mouth.

 “Suzanne, pourquoi?”

 But he could plainly see. Her skin was luminous like the moon. And shimmered like the stars. Battles would be fought to win the chance at a caress of her skin. Songs would be written about her flesh. Denis wrote one right there. It went: “Creme de corpse, skin so beautiful like porpoise, what is your purpose, but to make us nervous.”

 Denis slapped Suzanne and she cried and poured herself a glass of cabernet sauvignon.

 “We have been down this rue before! Your Crepe stand in Brussels? You used the flesh of those you found creepy and filled with creamy, nutty dog turds.”

 “I was honest! Just as I am being honest now. I tell them it’s corpse, and look at them!”

 It was true. Albert and Francois were rubbing each other’s asses full of creme. Jeanette and Claire and a pony were doing unspeakable things. Not sure if there was creme involved, but still.

 Suzanne stabbed Denis. As he died, she said: “You must never hit a woman, Denis.” And she poured herself a glass of sauvignon blanc.

 And he took some time to die, so she said, “You will make my finest creme, mon amour.” But it wasn’t true. Denis smoked too much in his pipe. His creme was too acid. She would have to kill Claire, who was round and from a farm.



Mary Crosbie is a stand-up comic, and actor who co-stars, with Moe Rosen, in the Mary and Moe show (see their FB page!) She is also the lead guitarist and singer in the NYC-based band, The Biggest Catch. This story is part of her collection Scary Killy. 

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