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mortha’s dark forces                                                            jan/feb 2023

a rage room of one’s own

Today I’m going to teach you how Philip Nitschke’s wonderful Sarco Death Pod can remove a love rival from your life without leaving a hole that anyone will notice. There are people you so look forward to sending to hell and I want to share with you how I achieved one of my most very special triumphs. It’s a love letter, straight from my heart.

A project like this always starts in my rage room, where I do all my planning and keep all of my tools neatly organized. My favorite tool by far for eliminating the unwanted is Philip Nitschke’s Sarco Death Pod. A true multi-tasker, the Sarco can go from ending a life, to storing the body, to being server-ware that you’re proud to display your loved one in at the viewing.

I trust that the dying process inside the Sarco Death Pod is not only painless but euphoric because it’s still-animate creator, Philip Nitschke, says that it is. He knows because there is not a single negative review on Yelp from people who have used the Sarco Death Pod. Not one person has complained that their Sarco didn’t cause them to die by asphyxiation in around five minutes. Give or take a few last moments that – fingers crossed! – weren’t the mother of all nightmares in your oxygen-deprived consciousness. But you’ll look peaceful on the outside!

When you’re dispatching a rival, sometimes simple utilitarian violence is best because there’s no danger of overthinking the pain you’re about to rain down.

But you may also need a story that’s as powerful as the Sarco’s own breath-taking force, and one that pairs well with the freshly dead. I’ve used the Sarco Death Pod on assistants, neighbors, and zoning board members, all of whom were then easily – and attractively – presented as convincingly terminal.

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Here’s what the American Defense Attorneys Association says about the Sarco Death Pod, winner of their 2022 claus Von bÜlow award:

“Because we believe with our eyes first, the stunning visual design of Philip Nitschke’s Sarco Death Pod allows our clients to craft bespoke exculpatory narratives that set the stage for unparalleled reasonable doubt.”

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Yet all who had come before were child’s play compared to my romantic rival. She who I had once mentored, she who was the scourge of the Hamptons, she who had broken my love’s beautiful spirit then blithely trilled, “How bad can that be?”

My rival, you see, was the wife of my paramour. A man who had promised me that he’d stopped going to town on her conjugal roast chicken years ago and that mine was the only bird he couldn’t wait to dive into.

If you’ve seen my roast chicken recipe that uses any truffles you happen to have laying around, you know there’s just no possibility that my passionate imp was still dutifully gnawing away at that barefoot bitch’s under-brined, bone-dry clucker.

And then he showed up at my house on Monday morning stinking of jus.

Her jus.

I knew her smell. Foster Farms and American butter.

Like the qualifications of a glorified pasta salad purveyor aspiring to be a taste-maker, the steps to my attaining romantic bliss would be few.

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I went to my favorite butcher, Pat LaFrieda, and purchased a 12-bone standing rib roast for a very intimate dinner party of three and then I went to my friends at D’Artagnan for an entire lobe of foie gras.

I dined early before my guests, gathering strength and summoning my dark forces by throwing the bones from the rib roast and taking an auger’s reading from the liver. The auspices were in my favor and soon my dearest one would be mine on the weekends as well as the weekdays.

My rival had barely asked why my “tanning bed,” was in the dining room before I was shoving her into its maw – the Sarco Death Pod – and slamming its lid down on her attempts to escape as if she were an angry jumbo lobster realizing the cook-pot wasn’t filled with a giant batch of Cosmos when the banging from inside stopped and it was over and my love was screaming why oh my god why you monster and I was yelling you made me a monster and now I’m your monster, you brownie-loving bastard.

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But we weren’t done yet.

I told you there would be no hole that anyone would notice. What could be easier to not investigate than the death of an older disabled woman? Dying is what they do.

And with the Sarco Death Pod, no disability is no problem.

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Choosing the Sarco Death Pod’s Stragedy® setting, I plugged it into my beloved’s medulla oblongata, or lizard brain, and programmed him with a strategically tragic story about his plump squab of a wife’s secret battle with a progressive neuro-muscular disease and its guaranteed loss of dignity.

All I had left to do was reposition my newly lifeless rival in the Sarco Death Pod (now available in Careless Whisper Red) as if she were a peaceful brisket nestled in a crock-pot, and it was set-it-and-forget-it time while plausible deniability downloaded into my beloved’s shattered consciousness.

Now my newly-single darling was prepared to exploit a human’s sympathy and leverage societal fears whenever faced with probing questions about how exactly he became a widower.

That’s the Sarco Death Pod difference.

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