The handyman at our apartment block on Ave Du Parc never came over this week.
He was too ill, he said, upon delaying his visit, postponing it from Tuesday to Friday morning. When Friday came, a last minute phone call arrived instead, informing us that he was too distraught to come over after hearing that his friend had been murdered. I was told by someone, who was in turn informed by someone else, who played baseball with the handyman's friend, that they found his body parts dismembered in an alley, left in boxes between the backs of houses with their leafy fences and discarded household ephemera which sometimes stranger take to give new homes to.
So yes, the discarded body parts were left there to rot, swarms of flies buzzing around them, I imagine, trying desperately to get into the tasty goodness of dried blood and congealed fatty tissue that fermented slowly inside, as the summer sun of Montreal beat down upon them.
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