The Bates Motel Bar of Soap
by Jason McKinney
My name’s Bartholomew and I have a story to tell! You know those bars of soap you find in motels? Well, that’s what I am, a cheap bar of soap in a cheap motel. I’ve had some good and bad times in my short life and this is the story of both.
The guy who owns the motel I work in is a creep and into some weird stuff. The towels heard from the bed linens that he’s into peeping tomfoolery and stuffing dead animals. He’s not a bad-looking guy for a soft-spoken, dark-haired broomstick but his mommy obsession’s more than a little off-putting. Like I said, the guy’s a creep.
My first task at my job was pretty awesome. I mean, how many bars of soap can say that their first go at bathing is with a hot blonde. This girl was smoking hot! She was sharp in all sorts of ways but unfortunately so was the knife that killed her.
I mean what the hell, you know? Here I am, minding my own business, slathering her up when the curtain opens up all of a sudden and this jackass starts stabbing her. Not only does he ventilate her with a butcher knife but he does it in his mothers dress! I mean seriously, what’s that all about?
My day was shot after that. He cleaned up the mess he’d made and used me to do it. That sucked! I went from sliding all over sweet boobs to cleaning up blood for Sweeny McCreepiness, the demented taxidermist of the desert.
The worst part was when he smoothed me down and tried to put me back in my wrapper. He did a crap job of it by the way. Then he shoved me into his pocket. Not only is he blood thirsty and weird but he’s cheap too.
Next thing I know he’s talking to his dead mother, in two voices I might add, as he climbs the stairs fumbling with me. “Norman, get up here. Norman where are you?” he kept saying to himself in a fake, gross old woman’s voice. Ugh. Well, Norman did a crap job rewrapping me to begin with but because he kept handling me with his sweaty, skin wrapped, bony appendage he got me all lathered up, and not in a good way, and warped me out of shape, too. Then I landed right on the steps and now I have old woman carpeting on me to boot.
I laid on that step for who knows how long before some schmuck with a badge showed up. Questions are asked, paranoia ensues and this poor joker takes a fall down the stairs. Let me make something clear, he wasn’t so much pushed, but rather slipped. The guy stepped on me right as he was turning to face Mr. Bony Faced Murderer Momma’s Boy. Ever been stepped on by a slightly overweight person? No? Let me tell you, you don’t want to be. The guy ground his damn flat foot grime into me and on top of that took me down with him. Thanks for nothing, Ace. I swear we seemed to fall forever and at a weird angle too.
Now listen, Norman Creepy Pants knows how to clean a crime scene. I’m soap so I know clean. Unfortunately, I also know the feel of dead old lady. Creepy decided to wash mommy’s parchment like face before dropping me into the trash. I guess participation in three murders is the limit for a bar of soap. Why couldn’t I have been Dawn dishwashing liquid instead?