Dexter in the Dark | Page 3

THE BRIGHT, GLEAMING moon of slashing
happiness, no indeed. Oh, it pulls and whin es and shines in a cheap and guttering
imitation of what it should do, but there is no edge to it. This moon has no wind in it to

sail carnivores across the happy night sky and into slash-and-slice ecstasy.
Instead this moon flickers shyly through a squeaky-clean window, onto a woman
who perches all cheerful and perky on the edge of the couch and talks ab\
out
flowers, canapés, and Paris.
Paris?
Yes, with moon-faced seriousness, Paris is what she is talking about in that
far-spreading syrupy tone. She is talking about Paris. Again.
So what kind of moon can this possibly be, with its near-breathless smile and
smirking lace around the edges? It batters feebly at the window, but it can’t
quite get in past all the sickly-sweet warbling. And what kind of Dark Avenger
could simply sit across the room, as poor Dazed Dexter does now, pretend\
ing to
listen while mooning blearily on his chair?
Why, this moon must be a honeymoon—u nfurling its marital banner across the
living-room night, signaling for all to rally round, sound the charge, once more
into the church, dear friends—because Dexter of the Deadly Dimples is\
getting
married. Hitched to the wagon of bliss pulle d by the lovely Rita, who has turned
out to have a lifelong passion to see Paris.
Married, honeymoon in Paris…Do these words re ally belong in the same sentence as
any reference at all to our Phantom Flenser?
Can we really see a suddenly sober and simpering slasher at the altar of an
actual church, in Fred Astaire tie and tails, slipping the ring onto a
white-wrapped finger while the congregation sniffles and beams? And then Demon
Dexter in madras shorts, gawking at the Eiffel Tower and snarfing café\
au lait
at the Arc de Triomphe? Holding hands and trundling giddily along the Seine,
staring vacantly at every gaudy trinket in the Louvre?
Of course, I suppose I could make a pilgrimage to the Rue Morgue, a sacred site
for serial slashers.
But let us be just a tiny bit serious for a moment: Dexter in Paris? For
starters, are Americans still allowed to go to France? And for finishers, Dexter
in Paris? On a honeymoon? How can someon e of Dexter’s midnight persuasions
possibly consider anything so ordinary? How can someone who considers se\
x as
interesting as deficit accounting enter into marriage? In short, how by all that
is unholy, dark, and deadly can Dexter really mean to do this?
All wonderful questions, and very reasonab le. And in truth, somewhat difficult
to answer, even to myself. But here I am, enduring the Chinese water torture of
Rita’s expectations and wondering how De xter can possibly go through with this.
Well then. Dexter can go through with this because he must, in part to maintain
and even upgrade his necessary disguise, wh ich prevents the world at large from
seeing him for what he is, which is at best not something one would real\
ly like
to have sitting across the table when the lights go out—especially if there is
silverware present. And quite naturally, it takes a great deal of careful work
to make sure it is not generally known that Dexter is driven by his Dark
Passenger, a whispery-silk voice in the shad ed backseat that from time to time
climbs into the front seat to take the wheel and drive us to the Theme Park of
the Unthinkable. It would never do to have the sheep see that Dexter is the wolf
among them.

And so work we do, the Passenger and I, work very hard at our disguise. For the
past several years we have had Dating Dexter, designed to present a cheerful and
above all normal face to the world. This charming production featured Rita as
the Girlfriend, and it was in many ways an ideal arrangement, since she was as
uninterested in sex as I am, and yet wanted the companionship of an
Understanding Gentleman. And Dexter really does understand. Not humans, romance,
love, and all that gabble. No. What Dexter understands is the lethally grinning
bottom line, how to find the utterly deserving among Miami’s oh-so-many
candidates for that final dark election to Dexter’s modest Hall of Fa\
me.
This does not absolutely guarantee that Dexter is a charming companion; the
charm took years of practice, and it is the pure artificial product of