Dinner Party Massacre
An Extreme Horror
Aleister Davidson
Black Mantis Press LLC
Copyright © 2018 by Aleister J. Davidson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely by coincidence.
I
Rape
1
The Making of a Madman
It was 20 years ago today that they tortured me; that they put me through hell. Today I would get my revenge. Three piggies in the back of a limousine. Three little piggies that have no clue what is coming. They think they are heading to a fancy dinner party at the home of a famous writer. They aren’t wrong, but they won’t be dining with me. Not for long. No, they will be shown the error of their ways, and if they are lucky, they will beg to die quickly.
My home sits in Park Presidio, in San Francisco. There is a beautiful view of the Golden Gate bridge from my front porch. It cost me a whopping twelve and a half million dollars. I didn’t blink an eye. Just wrote a check for it. Ever since the movie deal for my first book I have been rolling in dough. Something these little piggies don’t know about me though, as famous as I’ve become, is that I used to be homeless. A street kid who was on the Haight before I was even eighteen. It was then that they mistook me for someone who would take the kind of horrors they unleashed.
I was only nineteen when I wound up in San Francisco County jail for selling less than an eighth ounce of marijuana to an undercover police officer. A cop who dressed in wretched, filthy rags. A cop who I easily mistook for a gutter punk like myself. He had the scabbed face of a meth head. Where I came from cops weren’t tweakers, they preferred cocaine. But tonight it wasn’t the cop who set me up, nor the cops who arrested me that were being brought to my house for the “dinner party.” It was the San Francisco County sheriffs who processed me into the jail.
The three little piggies had been jovial, almost kind, at first. Given the situation, having just been arrested for a felony, it was a calm that I needed. If the sheriffs were cool and liked to talk then maybe doing time in SF wouldn’t be so bad. Or so I had thought.
We joked about weed and how it should be legal while they fingerprinted me. But that was the end of my life as I knew it.
What happened next was the beginning of my living nightmare. After they took my prints, I was escorted into the room where inmates are strip searched. Everything proceeded normally at first. But just as I thought it was over, and I began to put my new orange jumpsuit on, I was grabbed forcefully by hands whose grip was an iron vise. The sheriff spun me around, shoved my face into the wall and punched me in the ribs. The air went out of my lungs. I was struggling to regain my breath as he spoke.
“I’m gonna need you to go ahead and bend over again. Spread those cheeks white boy,” the sheriff said. I was intimidated immediately. He was built like a pro wrestler or a football player. I am six feet tall, but he towered over me and was more than double my weight, which wasn’t surprising as I was a street urchin.
The sheriff unzipped his jumpsuit, and I began to shake. I was trembling, knowing what was to come. He didn’t hesitate and penetrated me forcefully. I knew immediately that my anus had torn. I could feel a trickle of what I assumed to be a mixture of blood and some kind of lubricant oozing down my leg as he tore into my ass. Tears welled in my eyes, he bent over me, putting his mouth next to my ear. Just then the curtain opened behind us, and the distinct sound of a camera flash going off hit my ears. I glanced back as best I could and saw a round, white, female sheriff with blond hair staring at me, holding a Polaroid camera. She took another picture and let out a giggle. I was more shocked by her actions than by the fact that I was being raped.
As the lady sheriff closed the curtain to the strip search room behind us, the sheriff who was violating me whispered into my ear. “All you little white boy fucks from the midwest think San Francisco is a joke. What do you think now, bitch? You ever, and I mean ever, say anything about this to anyone, and we will kill you. You understand?”
I nodded without hesitation. Then he continued. It felt like hours before he stopped. I sobbed and cried into my shoulder, feeling his breath on my neck, ear, and cheek throughout the whole process. When he finished, he gave me nothing to clean up with except for the clothing which I had been issued. I felt relief that it was over. I couldn’t look the giant pig in the face. As soon as I got dressed he opened the curtain back up and took me to a holding cell, gripping me much harder than was necessary under the left arm.
He opened the holding cell, which was a transparent plexiglass wall. It had a toilet in the back of the room, surrounded on only one side by a waist-high metal wall. There was a bench along the length of one wall. I was shown the cell next to it, which was all but empty and had a couple of friends of mine from the Haight Ashbury as its only occupants. Alas, I was not put in with them. I was shoved into an overcrowded cell, whose occupants were all members of the same gang. A set from Hunter’s Point, they were hard as nails. As I was shoved into the cell, crying from my eyes and bleeding from my ass, all eyes turned to me.
“Have fun you racist bitch!” the sheriff who raped me yelled at me as he flung me into the cell as well as directly into one of the inmates before he slammed the door. I immediately knew I was about to be in a fight for my life and I was not likely to make it. The sheriff making me out to be some kind of racist was a shocking surprise.
As a young, brutish man got in my face, baring gold teeth at me, I felt like just giving up. Then the voice of my salvation whistled through the room like the sound one would use to call a horse or a dog. A cowboy whistle that I could not make myself but had been trying since I was a child.
“Leave the white boy alone,” the man on the bench said. He was the oldest man in the room by far. He didn’t sit up, he didn’t even open his eyes, and everyone obeyed him without question, without hesitation.
While the processing time should have been a couple of hours I was left in that holding cell, with barely room to even curl in the fetal position as I did, for a day and a half. A day and a half without food, water, medical attention. The gang members were all processed in and given proper cells. I was left to rot until the same sheriffs who abused me had gone home and were back on duty. My best estimate was eighteen hours, but that was only from talking to the new people who would come and go through the cell. I only had a vague notion how long it had been. I was half delirious, and my mind had shattered. The rape had been more than I could take. I was already homeless and felt nominalized, marginalized and victimized by society. I couldn’t trust myself to know how long it had been.
Every hour or so during my initial incarceration I was subjected to the fat lady sheriff coming by the cell and taking the polaroid picture out of her chest pocket and pressing it to the cell door. Sometimes she would be accompanied by another rotund sheriff with a buzz cut. He would point and laugh at us through the door and call us faggots and homos and all sorts of other slurs. He even let me know that he as going to go home and jack off to the pictures that she took. It became evident that this was a regular thing for them. The sick fucks! The other inmates that had been abused as well had the same thing happen to them. There were three of us total in the beginning, and the sheriffs made sure all twenty people in our tiny room knew who we were. That we had been tortured and that it could happen to them as well. It was an unthinkable extra le
vel to the humiliation that I had suffered.
When I finally got moved to my bunk, it was a relief. They moved me to a place called B Pod. It was supposedly for non-violent drug offenders, but I soon found out that it was full of people of all types, violent among them, as the other Pods were overpopulated. There were a lot of people in for very minor cannabis offenses though. It wasn’t like it is today with legal marijuana. They took it as seriously as cocaine. Another way to victimize the poor.
Two weeks went by before I even met my court-appointed attorney. She was in Boston; her father had unexpectedly died. I said that I understood, but it didn’t make it any easier for me to know that I could have gotten out within three days. For the two weeks when she was in Boston I had her assistant helping me and appearing in court for me. She came to see me a couple of times, and it made me very uncomfortable. She was my age or only a couple years older. A young woman with perky tits and a pretty face. She would let her lips casually graze my ear when conferring with me in our initial court appearance. I didn’t hear a word she said. Her touch and her smell were too much to handle. When she would come to B Pod to confer with me she was always touchy; too touchy. It made me realize that she was lonely. Even though she could walk freely out the door into the world, even though she was young and attractive she still sacrificed her social life and her love life for her career. In my bunk at night, I would fantasize about her. She was the only female contact I would have for weeks other than the sheriffs, and they were all pigs in my mind at that point.
The attorney’s assistant informed me that I was facing up to three years in prison. San Quentin to be exact; the same prison that houses Charles Manson. She encouraged me to take a plea deal. Still, I pleaded not guilty and stayed in jail. I wanted an actual lawyer to talk to me before I made any life-changing choices. I had been arrested twice earlier that month and had been let out after a few hours the first time and after a day the second. Possession charges. With the third charge a sales charge, and my court date for the other offenses not yet having passed, the state decided to run all of my charges concurrently, which was good for me. That also meant that I couldn’t get released on my own recognizance because I had been twice previously.
So for three weeks, I sat in jail in San Francisco. Three weeks before I could shit. Three weeks I had to suffer without anyone else that cared about my misery or the torture I had been put through. I decided not ever to tell anyone after I got out. I would be lucky to make it out alive if I said anything to the nurse, or so the rapist had informed me. I would be killed on the outside if I ever went to the cops, or so the rapist had informed me. I had no idea how powerful they were, and I was just a kid; a street rat who had fallen into poverty and homelessness chasing my dreams of professional skateboarding.
Still, I knew that one day I would seek revenge for what they did to me. For what they did to others and for what they apparently planned on doing in the future. I didn’t care how many of them there were in their network. The three who were involved in torturing me were going to get all of my vengeance. It would be enough to send a message to the others involved if there were any.
I spent the twenty years after my abuse in SF County Jail writing science fiction and horror stories. I got published within a couple of years, and here I am now, twenty years later with four hundred million dollars and a mansion in Park Presidio. It wasn’t all great though. Before my first novel got turned into a major motion picture, the income was meager. But that big break did come, and it has been the good life ever since. A life so good in fact that I have mayors and governors over to my house regularly. Movie stars and rock stars, professional athletes, and foreign dignitaries. I hobnob with the elites of the world, no matter what circle their influence is in. Tonight I am receiving a personal favor from my friend the mayor of San Francisco in the form of my torturers unsuspectingly being delivered to me.
It would almost be worth it to just enjoy an evening with them, as they thought would happen, before letting them know who I truly am. Not only the number one bestselling author Alan Price, but one of the kids they tortured back in nineteen ninety-seven. I would cherish the looks on their faces before sending them on their way. But no, I have something much more elaborate planned. I have an entire evening of revenge in store for them.
As the limo parks in the parking lot of my estate, I am still rereading the dossier my people prepared for me over the past few years. Linda Harris, aged fifty-four years. Mother of three. Married to deadbeat dad Mark Harris, aged fifty-six. Lastly, there is Samuel McBride, the giant muscle man with the ebony skin who despite hating white people has two white accomplices that help him sodomize inmates. Linda, Mike, and Samuel. You decided to rape the wrong man.
My butler greeted the guests and the mayor as the driver returned the limo to the garage. They seemed so excited; I could tell as I watched them through surveillance monitors. To meet the famous Alan Price, author of Even Necros Get the Blues, All’s Well That Ends In Splattered Gore, and Satan House From Hell! Not to mention Martian Moon Men From Beyond Pluto. It was apparent that Linda was a huge fan of mine and the other two were just excited to meet an A-list celebrity. From the way Linda gushed at the threshold, I could tell she was an uber-fanatic. I bet she even had a bobble-head toy of me that she bought for too much money on eBay. She had definitely seen the walkthrough of my home on YouTube that Home and Garden network posted. My way of giving the fans a peek into my private affairs without revealing too much. After all, I primarily live in Hawai’i for six months out of the year. I spend another three months traveling and spend very little time in San Francisco anymore. I don’t even care about this place, the things in it, the art, the cars, etc. A peek into this half-empty mansion is no more a look into my life than my incarceration had been socially rehabilitating for me. The fans ate it up though they didn’t get to see the secret, underground floors. The ones where my guests will end up by the end of the night.
I greeted the mayor and my three little piggies in the foyer. I could tell that Linda was still in awe and Mark and Samuel seemed a bit annoyed to be in her company. I was pleasant and greeted them as any other special guests that the mayor might bring over. I am no actor, but I did an excellent job of not breaking into a smile after my butler took their coats. I didn’t want to betray my fiendish intentions with something as simple and telling as a sinister grin. But I wore it on the inside.
We gathered in the dining room and enjoyed a couple of bottles of wine, some cheese, and some sourdough bread from Boudin. My chefs were cooking away in the kitchen, and the smells wafted through the house, enticing everyone. Linda went to the lady’s room, and I took the mayor aside into a hallway off the kitchen to get a bit of privacy from Mark and Samuel. I let him know that his services were undoubtedly appreciated and three hundred thousand dollars were in a briefcase with my driver and when he was returned home at the end of the evening the briefcase was his to keep.
I thought that everything would be good to go; that I could proceed with my planned night of terrible horrors for those scum, those dirty little piggies. The mayor informed me that the three had come to my home thinking that I intended to buy child pornography from them, as well as photographs of prisoners being tortured, raped, and humiliated. I had no clue that it would take such a drastic approach for the mayor to pitch their visit to the three, but he assured me that without that angle they would have been suspicious. Apparently, they considered themselves to be quite powerful, quite organized, and for all intents and purposes to be untouchable. The mayor seemed to think that they were working for one of the intelligence agencies. He assumed the C.I.A., but he wasn’t sure.
I played it like I was ignorant of who they were. I played it as if it were going to be a big problem and the operation I had planned would be called off. The mayor bought it. He had no idea that I had been monitoring them for years through my own contacts in the intelligence community. Good. That was the way I liked it. I could send him home, assure him every
thing was called off and I got cold feet, and they all left together and all intact. Nothing would be farther from the truth. I intend to visit hell on them.
I returned to the dining area with the mayor. There was a beautiful view of the city lights glistening off of the Pacific. The fog was nowhere to be found, and it made for a fun atmosphere. I had Miles Davis’ On the Corner playing through my stereo and was not shocked to see that Linda broke out some coke and started to cut out lines for everyone. Good, let them get wasted. One last fun time for them, I don’t care. I did find it funny that they didn’t even bother to ask me if I were okay with it, but then again they thought that they were at my house to sell me kiddie porn.
The staff brought out our dinner shortly after the mayor and the three pigs snorted a couple of lines. Glazed pork tenderloin. How perfect for the final meals for these pigs. The mayor picked at his food reluctantly, wondering if he were getting drugged too. All I could do to reassure him was to smile a wry smile his way and dig into my own tenderloin ravenously.
We all ate, drank, laughed and shared life stories. It was awkwardly comfortable. If they weren’t psychopaths who raped and, I assume, murdered people…if they weren’t traffickers of kiddie porn, if they weren’t pigs…I might have been friends with them. I played it off well. Even after a few glasses of wine. I have a cousin who is a certified psychopath. I understand the pathology, and if I have to, I can fake being one of those people. One of the sick fucks who’s narcissism is so extreme that they cannot see past their own nose. It takes that kind of self-centeredness to be a true psychopath, not just a mere sociopath. A real psychopath is so narcissistic and sadistic that their complete lack of empathy cannot be easily covered up. I bet Mark and Linda have never felt a thing for each other. It is sad really. To go through life feeling nothing but anger, to only feel pleasure at the suffering of others. It takes a severe detachment to be like these people. I won’t have to play along much longer. The drugs will be kicking in soon enough.
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