“Well, holy guacamole, I thought you’d written me off for dead. I miss my little pumpkin. Are you okay? Why haven’t you called or answered my calls?” he asked, the excitement draining from his voice the more he spoke.
Lowering his voice meant that he was choking back tears. This was a lesson Brianna learned early. Sure, he was a tough guy and looked like a biker, but when it came to his little girl—his Brianna—he was soft as bunny fur.
“Daddy, I’m just... I don’t know. I don’t want to make you worry.”
“You haven’t been... you know... there hasn’t been any boys that have gone too far or... ” Agitation stole his tone.
“No, no, no, daddy. Nothing like that. I’m just busy with volleyball and my studying. And I’m trying to exercise... ”
“You’re going to parties when you get a minute. Having some fun?” He finally relaxed into the conversation.
“I go to some parties. Brock and Lance take good care of me.”
Damn right they do.
Stop it. Stop thinking about what those boys do to you and how much you like it.
“You there?” Her father asked.
Brianna hadn’t noticed that she was sucking her thumb. She popped it out of her mouth and said, “I’m sorry. I lost my train of thought.”
Trained by two boys at the same time.
Again, stop it, Brianna!
“You’re not taking drugs are you?”
“No, daddy. Nothing like that.”
Unless two dicks in my mouth is a drug.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
She nearly hung up on her father. She couldn’t bare the overwhelming guilt. Thoughts of confessing rattled her mind. She laughed out loud. Not that confessing was funny. But the oddest image of Brock’s cock punching her brain wouldn’t leave her image sensory.
“You know you can talk to me, right? If you ever have any trouble... that you need to talk to me about, I’m here. I’ll never judge you. I promise, pumpkin.”
There it was. Now she was going to cry. Her father’s heart was going to break if he ever found out. He wouldn’t banish her from his life, no. Nor would he condemn her. There probably wouldn’t be any judgment if she came clean about her sexual prowess, but she would smash his heart into a million pieces. Hell, she might kill him by way of a heart attack. She couldn’t. And on a high note, she couldn’t hold these silly, girlish thoughts anymore. She had to stop.
“Daddy, I’m just stressed, but having fun. My grades are good. Brock and Lance watch out for me, but it’s just a lot. I’m overwhelmed. College is different and I’m... adjusting. Trying to figure out who I am. What I want out of life.”
“Baby, I completely understand. That’s what college is for and I don’t want to add to your stress, but promise you’ll give me a call once a week? Even if all you do is call me up to say, ‘Hey, I’m alive. Don’t worry about me.’”
“I can do that, daddy.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“I love you, dad.”
“Not as much as I love you, pumpkin. I wish your mother were here to see you.”
“She does.” These words stung.
Once she hung up, she marched to the bathroom, pulled her shorts off, turned the hot water on, sat down in the tub, removed the nozzle, pulled it down and slowly rotated the showerhead around her wet parts. And she enjoyed it. When climax approached, she removed the spray and took quick breaths. She didn’t want to orgasm. She’d save that for tonight.
2
The Killer sat at his desk watching his new video footage. The image-texture was grainy. Biting his lip, he wished the iris on his camera had been more open. While editing these fresh clips he thought about the soundtrack. What kind of music did he want to play over the footage? Music really set the tone of a video. Candle Box, a nineties band, blared from his iPad. This video needed the images to sync with nineties grunge. For whatever reason, he loved listening to this sentimental era of music. The songs held a grit-value that resonated. The beats and ballads were emotion invoking and raw. Kurt Cobain, Eddy Veder, and Chris Cornell led the pack. The gratuitous sex described in the lyrics provoked a specific brand of illicitness that he sought. Sex was everything when melded with violence. This new video was special. It cut together in the most perfectly twisted way. A montage of sex, drugs, rock and roll, then strung together with sweet young adults. Soon the video would contain violence. Extreme violence. Violence would define the content. The Smiley Devils would savor this sick film. The Dark Lord was satisfied with his work.
The Killer would savor each moment as he desecrated these boys. He wasn’t sure what to do with the girl. She wasn’t the subjective victim. There were rules. Caucasian males with athletic builds were to be drowned. That was protocol. This sacrifice was greater than the rules. He would gut and destroy these pigs. The girl wouldn’t qualify, but at this point The Killer didn’t know if he could exclude her from his masterpiece. The Dark Lord presented this sacrifice as a gift for his loyal service. He wanted her insides exposed. Cannibalism was an evolving idea. His masterpiece video demanded this content. Cutting her out from the Smiley Devil version of his film—the edited-for-television cut might appease his pallet. The uploaded version would include Lance and Brock, not Brianna. But the extended director’s cut would include all three. The gruesome nature of his capabilities would shine. Burn, really. He would murder her in a special way. Maybe he would keep her. There were places in this massively forested portion of the Midwest where he could find an outpost and bind her. Keep her at his disposal for sexual purposes. Shaking this thought, he focused on the work. Best to leave these thoughts for another time.
Right now, his priorities were to set the trap for Brock and Lance. Lure them into his web and then attack their helpless beings.
How would he get them to a bar?
When could he find them alone?
This shouldn’t be hard.
They were constant patrons at The Quarter.
Somehow, he needed to get them inebriated. Then he’d need to bait them into the cold winter night. They’d probably taken the bridge route a million times. Taking this route would be beneficial. The killer imagined his scenario. In his vision he saw Brock crossing the bridge. It would be his final walk.
Aware, he knew that this sacrifice would be a challenge. Brock was fit. He was a skilled fighter. Lance wasn’t physically threatening, but he was intelligent—also a threat. After a couple drinks, Lance would fall. One Smiley Devil would suffice for his apprehension. A plan to render him defenseless and unconscious would need preplanning, but was executable.
The first week of the winter semester was his best option. During that week, the students held more parties, drank more, packed into all the bars and thinned out police resources. As for an appropriate establishment, The Quarter was the option with the greatest projection of success.
This idea was what he’d go with. The first weekend of the new semester would be the weekend that Brock and Lance’s days on earth would end.
The Killer smiled wide. Striking the space key on his keyboard, he paused the editing system on his Mac Book Pro. The image on the computer was of Brock. The Killer leaned forward until his lips nearly touched the computer screen.
“You’re going to be my greatest challenge.” The Killer placed his index finger on the screen, directly above Brock’s arrogant smile.
For the first time in many years, The Killer experienced fear creep along his spine and he enjoyed it.
The Killer somehow, someway, knew that this kill would introduce challenges. Hell, he might not walk away from this sacrifice. But the fear of death excited The Killer. If he were to die killing, then his lord would reward him in the eternal fire.
The Killer smiled the smile of a Smiley Devil.
Death hovered like a looming crow.
3
The boxing gym that Brock frequented smelled of stale sweat and left a chalky layer of dust at the back of his throat. Loud grunts and moan
s of agony echoed off the brittle walls as men fought and trained. Brock’s forehead poured sweat in plump beads while wailing on the duct-taped heavy bag. Hands taped, with each strike of the heavy bag—one strike after the other with great succession—his anger would build and then purge. He couldn’t understand where this aggression stemmed from, but at least he was present at a suitable venue for his release.
With his left foot, he pushed off the short-carpeted floor. His right foot slammed into the heavy bag and sent it soaring off the hook. The two men—off-duty cops wearing Oshkosh Police Department shorts—aged with bad mustaches—sparred in the adjacent ring. Both turned toward the commotion. Brock’s loud grunt, as he kicked the bag, had been purposefully obnoxious. He desired negative attention.
“Whoa there, killer. Don’t snap the bag,” one of the men protested.
“One of you guys wanna spar a few rounds?” Brock asked while smacking his left fist into his right palm. His adrenaline coursed adventurous like a whitewater rampage. Brock desired to hit something live, not a punching bag.
The elder cop that clearly thought he possessed youthful stamina would do the trick.
This current behavior was primitive. Brock marched toward the second boxing ring centered in the warehouse. This was considered a gym? He pulled the ropes up, ducked under, and jumped from foot to foot, adjusting his rhythm into sync. He tossed his head side to side, loosened his neck. Looking to the older man, he nodded before making his way to the center of the ring. Brock and the cop bumped boxing gloves signifying let’s go.
“You sure, old man?” Brock remembered that this was supposed to be friendly. Still, he knew the answer. Sensing aggression, anger, and humiliation in the middle-aged man’s red streaked eyes came easy. This man held the eyes of a cop—strong exhaustion melded with alert focus. Plus, this man clearly wanted to punish Brock. Beat the adolescent arrogance from him. Unfortunately, he was in for a painful awakening.
“I think this old dog has a few new tricks,” the man said, backing up and curling his shoulders in small circles before shadow boxing in the corner.
Someone at the back of the room rang a bell.
Brock moved forward, cocked his fist and struck the man in the face. Next, he sliced an uppercut through the officer’s chin, clearly dazing him. The alert focus shook from those intense cop eyes. Brock smirked with the intention of psychologically dominating his opponent. This next punch would end the fight. But that wouldn’t be enough. Brock would deny his opponent the objective. Personally, he wasn’t conflicted with this man. He’d seen him around. The fact was, Brock wanted to hit something, someone, anyone. And this man fit the bill. The cop was a living thing and therefore needed to be hit. And then Brock’s quick hands succeeded into the officer’s face. Brock punched repeatedly until the officer bled from his mouth, nose, and bellow both eyes. His face was a mess. Visible through his sparring mask—made of heavy foam—blood spilled down along the red padding. His face continued to absorb the brunt of Brock’s blows.
Stretching downward, Brock landed punches on the cop as he fell to the matt. The intensity of Brock’s focus was redirected when the man’s friend hollered, “Knock it off, punk!”
“Punk?” Brock repeated the insult.
The muscular off-duty police officer slid beneath the ropes. Taking a knee, he lightly slapped Brock’s opponent and asked repeatedly, “You alright? You alright?”
Blinking into consciousness, reconnecting with his senses, he peered upward at Brock and nodded into awareness.
Brock shook his anger and snapped into his reality. “Whoa... shit, man... is he alright? I didn’t mean to...”
“You lost your shit, bro. Know your limits. Your shit is only hot for a short time. We’re all on the same team. We’re sparring, working out some aggression. Not hurting each other for the sake of being mean-spirited. And if you can’t tell the difference then you need to get the hell out of here.” The off-duty cop barked at Brock. He displayed an uncharacteristic attempt at confidence, but Brock could sense the man’s fear.
Brock’s first instinct was to punch this stupid fogey in his face.
No one tells Brock Hills what to do.
Except Brianna.
He smiled.
“What the hell’s so funny?” the man asked, pulling his friend to his feet.
“Nothing. Sorry. I understand, sir.” Brock turned from the two men and walked to the edge of the ring, slid beneath the ropes, and vanished into the locker room.
The long hot shower calmed Brock’s nerves. Stepping out of the steamy shower, he dressed, applied deodorant, dabbed cologne on his neck and genitals and left the gym.
The off-duty cops had left. The car they’d arrived in was gone from the parking spot across the street. In its place was a black van. Engine running with the headlights out, the vehicle appeared menacing. Brock couldn’t verify why. Squinting to see, Brock watched the van and wondered if the cops had switched vehicles and were waiting for him to leave so they could kick his ass. Nonchalantly, he knelt down and pretended to tie his shoe while he secured his knife. He had a sheath for it that he kept around his ankle.
Did these assholes really want to continue giving him shit?
He didn’t think they wanted a piece of him, but you never knew anymore. Plus, they were cops. They could get away with anything and they had the power of the police force behind them. In a town like this they could call up their buddies, have them rough Brock up and then leave him for dead in the middle of nowhere. Brock’s word wouldn’t hold any weight to the word of an officer. Rightfully, Brock thought. Maybe it wasn’t too intelligent to be knocking out off-duties. He’d apologize to the man next time he popped in.
Life—including people—had become so aggressive in present times.
He nearly tripped over his own feet as he thought of the irony to his predicament. Minutes ago, he’d condemned society and people for over-aggression yet he’d aggressively beaten a weaker person moments later.
I’m such a dick, he thought.
The way he’d handled things—hitting that old man—wasn’t cool. The owner of the boxing gym, Marty Shale would chew his ass out. Plus, the fact that he’d beaten on a cop wasn’t going to score him any political points. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be eighty-sixed from working out at this gym. He liked working out here.
“Screw it,” he whispered into the icy night air then started walking along the cracked sidewalk, away from the gym. Christmas lights trailed along both sides of the street. The cold wind bit and chapped at his raw skin. Snow fell in steady layers. Luckily, he lived near—a few blocks away. When he got home, he’d grab his things, shower again—rid the residual stink—then meet up with Lance and Brianna at the Marriott. Thinking about Brianna going down on him and catching an unpleasant odor was unacceptable. He’d certainly take a few moments to shower. Cleanliness was godliness.
“He’s too tough!” someone called from behind the metal door of the black van. The van door’s metallic squeal was followed by mean-spirited cackles.
Brock’s attention shot to the van. He smirked.
Do these assholes want some?
The laughter continued.
The inner turmoil he’d been groveling over was tossed aside. Brock marched across the street. Stopped about ten feet from the van.
Nobody laughed at Brock Hills.
After stepping off the curb, he halted at the sight in front of him. His anger morphed into anxiety. The van door was open. A man wearing a strange smiley-faced rubber mask tilted his head. Hard to see, but the mask looked like a smirking devil.
What the hell?
Brock watched three people— dressed in all black with stupid devil masks—stare at him. Tilting his head, he saw that the mask-faces were yellow with red streaks running downward from crescent horns that protruded from their foreheads.
“You guys cool?” Brock’s nerves flailed and his display of machismo died.
The Smiley Devils remained silent. One of th
em retrieved a hatchet from the floor and smacked the flat end of the blade against his gloved hand. Then he ran his finger along the sharp edge. Brock could hear the fabric of the man’s glove tear. The instrument was sharp as surgical equipment.
“What do you think you’re gonna do with that, jack ass?” Brock antagonized.
More laughter erupted from the van. There were more. Weird dudes.
The driver contributed deep guttural and menacing laughter.
“I got better things to do, boy. Have a good one.” Brock did have better things to do than look at three strange, masked, whack-jobs. The ax was disturbing, but not ultimately intimidating. If they were to brawl it would be three of them versus one of him. The odds wouldn’t be in his favor. But they didn’t know Brock’s skillset.
Fuck this. Leave.
Stepping backward, Brock hopped onto the sidewalk, retrieved his headphones from his pocket, stuffed them into his ears, and cranked the volume. Electronic music settled his nerves after a hard workout. Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over the top of his head he walked into a jog.
After walking a few yards his peripherals alerted movement. The van was following him. Now it drove parallel. Side door still open, the three masked figures—all holding sharp cutting tools—trained their eyes on him. And their antics were effective. Brock’s nerves rattled. Still utilizing his peripherals, he surveyed his surroundings. There were various avenues to run and hide. Gut instinct, he’d need an escape route. Pulling out his cell phone—with a shaky hand—he pretended to change the song. Instead, he placed his thumb on the nine-button followed by consecutive one buttons. Things had gone too far. There was need for the police. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t punched the cop.
How long would it take them to get here? They weren’t exactly quick these days. And Brock didn’t blame them. Police work was a thankless job. People, especially college students, loved to lure the police with antagonism, force them to react violently, record their reactions on an iPhone, and then destroy their reputations on the nightly news. The boys in blue had their hands tied behind their backs. Sitting ducks. He shook his head, and this current thought. There would be time to ponder politics at a later time. He did not hit the send button.
Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror Page 14
