Denatonium Benzoate

A Story by Grant

A story about an underestimated father.

I may be a psycho, but I'm not evil. Everything I did that night was justified, if not in the eyes of the law, then in the eyes of the one and true Lord, my God. I know so. I could hear him cheering me on.

Did I take pleasure in it? Sure. So call me a sadist. But, I did nothing wrong. And if my word or God’s doesn't convince you, here's the story; you be the judge.

It was Super Bowl Sunday. Hector, Helen, and I were visiting the in-laws in Bucks County, well, her mother--f*****g b***h that woman. I will admit that I did enjoy entertaining the kids with my chemical tastant collection. Collecting tastes has been a recent hobby of mine. Sucrose, citric acid, salt, monosodium glutamate. They love it. And it gives me a chance to share some of my knowledge about the fascinating world of gustation, since it bores the hell out of Helen. There is one that I won’t let them taste: denatonium benzoate�"a non-toxic chemical so bitter that too much could essentially incapacitate someone, a child at least, for hours, and may even induce vomiting. Of course, the capsaicin is off limits, as well, for obvious reasons.

Anyway.

It was about midnight the time we finally left. Helen grabbed Hecky, who was already fast asleep, I collected my chemical goodie-bag and Helen’s diaper bag, and we left. We hopped on 95, and embarked on our two-hour journey, stopping once for gas and to change Heck. Two hours�"plenty of time a have a long and social exhaustion-induced argument that covered each one of our crippling marriage problems. She’d bring up my rude behavior toward her b***h mother. I’d bring up the infidelity. She’d tell me that “Chad is a real man, strong enough to actually protect a family.” So on and on. Normal couple s**t.

“Do you think they think of me as the fun uncle?”

“They think of you as the weird uncle who’s obsessed with weird chemicals.”

To break a tense moment of silence, I decided to play some music. The radio was in disrepair, but we had an MP3 with a CD of Avenged Sevenfold’s greatest hits. We made it through the haunting intro of the first song, but before Shadows could shout “NIGHTMAAARE,” Helen turned off the MP3.

Two hours.

We got off at the exit for Chester. The plan was to then take Edgmont straight home, but the car broke down, yes, in Chester. Of all places, right? It was about 2:30 in the morning.

I couldn't have begun to explain what was wrong. I'm no mechanic. Cars are not my area of expertise. But, I got out to check anyway, fruitlessly. When I got back in the car, my plan was to call AAA, so I went through my wallet for my membership card. Before I could reach for my phone, though, I'd heard a series of rhythmic metallic taps by my left ear.

It was a knife rapping on the driver side window, held by the hand of a man dressed in all black with a white sock over his face. Helen shrieked, of course, but I put my hand on her leg and managed to bring it down to a panicky whimper. “Trust me,” I said. “Breathe.” She continued to whimper.

The man signaled me to roll my window down. Had I not, he would have shattered it. I was sure of that. With the window down, even with the cold steel blade pressed against my face, I could see the shady figure standing next to him, at which point I realized the entire car was surrounded by these low life goons.

“What is it, money?” I said.

“F****n’ right we’re taking your money,” said the first goon. “Dependin’ how much you got, maybe we’ll call it a night and leave y’all with a warning.” He shot my wife a glance. “Mm,” he grunted, “fine lookin’ b***h you got there. Hello, there, honey. My men’ll have fun with you.”

“Cheese,” he said as he nodded to one of the larger goons, who swung open the passenger door, and ripped my screaming wife from the seat. I lunged, but the man with the blade reminded me of the power he currently wielded over me. My attempt had only succeeded in securing a small gash just beneath my cheekbone.

“Ah, ah, ahh,” warned the man. “Why don’t you take that wallet out, skinny, then we’ll talk about the b***h. Speaking of�"” He called out to my wife. “Now, honey, why don’t you show us a little of that tight a*s of yours!” Against her struggle, Cheese�"a real monster of a man�"had tugged her jeans down just enough to give the men what they wanted. They cheered triumphantly, making smooching sounds and groping gestures at her. “Oh, f**k yeah,” you could hear one of the quieter ones say.

That’s when my son, who the main goon had not until now noticed, began to cry.

“Why, hello back there little fella!” He pressed the knife to my face a littler harder. “You know,” he said, “baby is Cheese’s favorite snack. How you like your baby, Cheese? Medium-well?”

“Still screaming,” said Cheese, whose voice was consistent with his monstrous build.

Until that point, I’ll admit, I was shaking quite a bit, but just then I’d stopped.

“Lay a f*****g finger on him�"”

“And what, skinny? Shutcha f****n’ mouth and pull out that goddamn wallet.”

I did as he said, but it had fallen between the seat and door.

“Pick it up, you clumsy f**k.”

I reached my arm down into the gap. As I did, my senses were loaded with the feel of the cold blade under my eye, the sight of my wife’s face being forced into the crotch of Cheese’s pants, and the sounds of the laughing goons, my whimpering wife, and my wailing child.

The goon didn’t know it yet, but in that moment, I had him exactly where I wanted him.

I pulled a small blade taped strategically to the carseat. Before he noticed, I’d managed just a small incision on his dorsal forearm. That’s all I needed.

The goon recoiled, but he was unimpressed. “Boy, you really think�"”

“Give it a sec,” I interrupted. I couldn’t help but smirk.

Before he could say ‘what’ he grabbed his wrist so tightly I thought his gnarly fingernails would pierce right through his skin.

“There it is,” I said.

The goon’s body visibly tightened. By his scream you’d think his arm was on fire. His goons had finally shut their f*****g mouths, and Cheese had loosened his grip just enough for my wife to deliver an iron kneecap to his genitals. She quickly re-entered the vehicle, reached in her purse and pepper-sprayed Cheese before closing and locking the door. The goons were too stunned to stop her. I wish I could have seen the dumb faces that were hidden under those socks.

The prick who had the knife to my face was now on the ground, and by now his fingernails had, indeed, broken skin. Between his pathetic squeals, he managed, “what the f**k is this?”

“Capsaicin,” I said. “Pure capsaicin crystals, dissolved in ethanol, 15 million Scoville heat units, and every last one of them wreaking bloody havoc on your thermal nociceptors. If you want to live, I’d get to a hospital within the hour.”

I then stepped out of my car and held my hot blade to the others. “Who else?” I challenged. “You, tough guy? How much are you willing to risk?”

They ran. Every single one of them. Like cockroaches from the light.

The goon with the blade was still squirming like a fetal-posed infant in distress.

“Some friends you got,” I said to him.

He was at this point no longer capable of basic speech.

“Relax,” I told him, “it won’t kill you. I just said that to scare your buddies away, dumb f***s. And now I have you all alone. The man who threatened to�"what was it, again�"eat my son?” I slashed him again, this time longer and slower, on his thigh, near his groin.”

My wife’s delivery of my son was the only time I’d ever witnessed someone in so much pain.

I reached in my bag.

“Here, take this. It will help with the pain.” He opened his mouth like a desperate and cocaine-addicted rat begging for another hit.

Denatonium benzoate�"the nauseating bitter that lays hours-long siege upon the human gustatory system at trace amounts. I dumped the vial into his mouth. If you can imagine the sweet sounds of the agonizing shrieks combined with the retch of a man about to throw up, that’s how blessed were my ears.

I then pulled out a perfume bottle labeled ‘skatole,’ and savored his agony for a moment before spraying it directly into his nostrils. “Smells like s**t, doesn’t it?” The diaper was my wife’s brilliant touch. She does impress me sometimes. If the denatonium, skatole, and violent reaction to the capsaicin didn’t cause him to purge, it was the mouthful of my son’s steaming feces. Of course, blocked by the makeshift diaper gag, the vomit-urine-and-s**t solution had nowhere to go but back down, then back up, then back down. F*****g poetic.

I decided to give him a couple more capsaicin cuts before blindfolding him (of course, I doused the blindfold in capsaicin; what a silly question) and fixed the MP3 on his head blasting Avenged Sevenfold’s Nightmare on repeat at volume 40. I don’t know, something in me felt that would just complete the sensory experience. Judging by the spastic and seizure-like motions of his body, it did.

I was about to call AAA, but just then, the ignition, as if by God’s will, turned over, and the car began to hum. We went home.

Needless to say, Helen and I had our best sex in a decade. And now, a decade later, we’re still happily married. Best night of my f*****g life.