Killing Eddie exceeded my expectations, like only a hummingbird can exceed the speed at which we process movement. I thought I would've felt at least a hint of guilt, maybe even shame, but no. Definitely not.
All these years, I knew the backhoe would eventually come in handier than a Robertson screwdriver on a long-haul space flight. I dug a hole so deep into the Martian surface that I could've covered up another xenocide, had the first one not wiped out the complete galaxial contingent of Peranzians. Then with an unceremonious thump, I dumped the Edster all the way to the bottom, along with a few of his prized possessions. Except for his penis. Its afterward would involve some creative manipulation of dead tissue.
Using the backhoe to refill the hole turned out to be trickier. All the fine Martian dust kept blowing more than filling, until I ran out of a pile of dirt and my hole was still clearly noticeable. I mapped out the area with surveyor's tape to stop some kid from falling in, ATV and all. Caution tape would've been more suitable, but I had to go with what I had. And the pinky-orange hue seemed appropriate for a guy so hung up on the masculine color palette.
