Kill Marguerite and Other Stories by Megan Milks

deep breath. Then he stepped up to the mic.
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” he asked. He paced back and forth, mic in his hand. The audience watched him. “Relationships, relationships. What am I going to do?”
    â€œEat me,” Mike called out from backstage.
    â€œThanks, Mike. I need friends like you like I need a sebaceous cyst.” The audience chuckled, and the stage felt a little more like home.
    â€œSo here’s my problem. I’m thinking of dumping my bulimic girlfriend. In fact, I want an upgrade. What I want is...an anorexic girlfriend.”
    He paused, twitching with nerves. Then he went for it.
    â€œYou—healthy audience people out there—may not realize how aspirational this is for me. There’s an enormous difference between a bulimic girlfriend and the anorexic. The anorexic girlfriend is the Mercedes Benz of dysfunction. People look at her: is she going to, you know, die? Or is she a model?” A laugh. A big one. “They just don’t know. On the plus side—and this must not be underestimated—the anorexic is the ultimate cheap date. How much does water cost? Go to a fancy place, maybe five bucks. Not bad. And a lot of places you go it’s practically free. I know of some restaurants that just give it away.
    â€œMy bulimic girlfriend, on the other hand, orders a modest four-course meal and then wants to share mine. ‘Share.’ As in, attack my plate like Godzilla. I went out for Japanese with my girl once, now a chunk of Japan’s missing.” A couple laughs.
    He made a sad, wise trek in a short circle around the stage, then chuckled. “Everyone pities the girl with the eating disorder. But what about her co-dependent boyfriend? What about me? People, a third-world country now lives in my toilet.”
    They laughed.
    â€œIt’s like some war zone in there.”
    He stopped. Turned. “The floaters, for instance. Remember Battleship, that kid’s game? It’s like that. They’re cruising around, they’re bobbing, colliding, sinking. G4 to F8. Kghshhrh! Oh no! You sank my battleship!”
    More laughter.
    â€œUp, down. Up, down. I now know what inspired the lava lamp.”
    He stopped again. “Ever hear of The Creature from the Black Lagoon ? Classic horror film. I used to obsess over it when I was seven. What is a black lagoon exactly? This kept me awake at night.” Hand on waist, willing to sound like a prissy nine year old. “ Where is this mysterious black lagoon?”
    He paused. “It’s in my toilet.
    â€œI stumble into the bathroom in the middle of the night, half awake. I lift the lid—” He pushed back three feet. “Whoa. Black water in the bowl. It’s like toxic sludge, and the smell...” he pinched his nose and grimaced. “Then this fucking webbed claw comes out of the bowl—oh no!”
    He froze in a mock crouch.
    â€œBut wait!” He sprang up. “I recognize that rubbery claw. ‘Hi, honey.’ And my girlfriend lets out a little screechy moan.”
    He made his face as long as possible, rolling up his eyes while he let forth an unearthly howl. The audience died. “‘Don’t you look cute in there.’” He moaned a few more times, as if she were responding. It killed.
    â€œAnd I’m like ‘Love you, boo. Don’t stay in there too late!’—You’ve been a great audience, ladies and gentlemen!”
    He bowed, then rushed from the stage, barely hearing the applause.
    Kevin high-fived him. “Yo. Good show.”
    â€œEdgy,” Mike said, pushing his chair back onto its back legs. “But can he push it further?”
    â€œI’ll push it further,” Jason said. “Into your ass .”
    When he got home, she was in bed. He found a covered pot on the stove, lifted the lid. She’d made fishcakes, his favorite. He smiled.
    Weeks later, Jason was stepping onto the small