by Neil Randall
P. followed the car as it turned off the main street and parked up.
In turn, I waited until she’d slipped into the passenger side before crossing over to the liquor store and reconnoitering the area. Too exposed for me to get a closer look, I remained on the corner, every now and then peering around the store to check on the car. In a matter of minutes, the vehicle started to rock and the windows steamed up. Due to the glare from nearby street lights, I could just about make out movement from the back seat, heads bobbing up and down, arms flailing.
I checked my watch: 22:14.
Four minutes later, the car stopped moving.
I crossed to the other side of the street, much further away, but with a free and easy vantage point. When P. eventually got out, she straightened her skirt and top, patted her hair into place, and walked back across the strip of waste ground. As if undecided as to what to do next, she looked right and left before crossing the street in my direction. I sunk back into the shadows, where I knew I would be unobserved, and watched P. cut down an alley-way.
Waiting a moment, I shuffled across the sidewalk and angled my head around the corner. Without attempting to conceal herself in any way, and in full glare of a security light, P. took some kind of antiseptic wipe from her handbag, hitched up her skirt, pulled her panties down to her knees, and cleaned her vaginal and anal areas with the wipe. When finished, she scrunched it up and tossed it to the ground. She then lit a cigarette, drawing on it deeply four or five times in quick succession, exhaling huge clouds of smoke, smoking it all the way down to the filter in an incredibly short space of time.
No sooner had she returned to her previous spot on the sidewalk than another mark, a broad-shouldered man, causally-dressed, with a baseball cap pulled tightly over his head, approached her – on foot his time. After a brief exchange of words, they walked two blocks (the mark ten or so paces ahead of P.) to a cheap motel with a beaten-up neon sign flickering above the entrance. From the opposite side of the street, I watched and waited, before crossing over and slipping inside the motel. In a dimly-lit, fusty-smelling reception area a drunk was sprawled out on a couch, snoring loudly, a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. In the far corner, by the main staircase, a wiry, sickly-looking old man with a patch over one eye, presumably the proprietor, sat in a reinforced plastic booth, like a cashier in a bank (no doubt to protect himself from robbery or attack.)
“What’d you want, buddy?” he asked, not once taking his good eye off the ball game flickering on a portable TV down to his right.
I slid a ten-spot along the counter, under the plastic window.
“The guy who just came in here with the broad, which room did they take?”
“Room fourteen.” He quickly pocketed the money. “Up the stairs, right at the end of the landing. You can take a look, buddy, but don’t you go harassing nobody. This is a respectable establishment. We don’t like our clientele being bothered none. It ain’t good for business.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I just wanna look around.”
Once up the stairs, I crept down the landing and put my ear to door number fourteen.
“Yeah,” panted the man, his voice rising above groaning bed springs. “How’d that feel, bitch?”
“Yeah, yeah, baby, yo’ sure are teaching me a lesson,” said P. (even through the door, she sounded bored and disinterested). “Yo’ sure are one of the best I ever had.”
Reconnoitering complete, nature of activities confirmed, I exited the building, withdrawing into a darkened store frontage across from the flophouse.
Approximately twenty-five minutes later, P. was back out on the street. Only this time her wait for her next client was much longer. A full half-hour passed before she became involved in an animated discussion with a slightly-built, curly-haired man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. When they came to some sort of agreement, P. set off in the direction of her home. Crossing the street, the new mark walked in the same direction, now and then darting a look at P., to confirm that she was still there.
When they reached the prefab, they had another exchange of words (in my original notes, I wrote the following: perhaps he wasn’t happy about the location, knowing how dangerous this area could be). Regardless, he followed her up to the house and looked on as she unlocked the door and ushered him inside.
By the time I’d got into my car and slipped on the earpiece, the mark was sitting on the sofa.
Client: Nice place you’ve got here (tone: facetious, condescending, maybe a little nasty). Now, I don’t mean to alarm you, young lady, but I do have some rather peculiar sexual preferences.
P.: That don’t bother me none, ’long as yo’ got the kinda dollar to pay for what yo’ want.
Client: Oh, don’t worry about that. Look (sound: rustling, maybe flicking through dollar bills to show that he did indeed have sufficient funds to pay). I’ll give you a big tip if you do whatever I want.
P: Hey, yo’ sure got yo’self a roll of bills there, baby. I bet yo’ must be a real important dude, carryin’ that much bread ’round with yo’.
Client: That’s right. I’m a very important man, a, erm…leader of industry, a famous philanthropist. And I want you to call me Sir from now on, okay? And I want you to take off all your clothes, only – only keep those heels on. They’ll come in handy later. When you’re done, I want you to undress me, slowly, item by item.
Sounds: rustling, heavy breathing, zippers unfastening, buttons popping.
Client: That’s it. Now I want you to take these song lyrics (sound: unfolding paper) I want you to suck me off, get me good and hard. Then I want you to use my cock like a microphone. I want you to sing those beautiful words right into it. Okay?
A relatively long silence, presumably P. is reading the lyric sheet.
P: Hold up a sec here, honey – I mean, sir. This looks like the words to that Hot Chocolate song.
Client (agitated, prickly tones): That’s right. What of it? It’s a disco classic. You want an extra fifty bucks or not?
P: Erm, yeah, yeah, sure I do, baby – sir. And don’t you worry (sounds: heels clicking over wooden flooring) I’ll get you good and hard, just like you say, then I’ll sing my lil’ old heart out, just you see if I don’t.
Sounds: sucking noises, squelching, a low satisfied murmuring and moaning.
This went on for approximately two and a half minutes.
P: Right (sound: paper scrunching).I believe in miracles (singing) where you from, you sexy thing…
P. sang through two complete renditions of the song. Each time, the client became incredibly aroused, praising her voice through grunts and groans of pleasure, promising her an additional fifty bucks if she sang the song with a little more feeling, and if she inserted a finger into his rectum at the chorus.
It was unclear whether any penetrative sex took place (in my original notes I circled the word unlikely), although it would appear that the client climaxed several times.
As with all other subjects, I recorded P.’s movements for a duration of sixteen weeks. In that period, she was an incredibly active sex worker, having maybe ten to a dozen clients each night (not including the times Garcia called round to her home, sometimes with four or five friends, and raped her repeatedly.) Using previous data, it was easy to calculate the potential rate of infection and spread of the disease. Only with the female prostitutes, the virus didn’t proliferate in the same way it did in the homosexual community. This could be due to a number of factors. Most notably: fear of pregnancy made the females more insistent on the use of prophylactics, especially amongst prostitutes (although it must be noted that many sex workers are taking some kind of contraceptive pill or using some kind of contraceptive device). Also: fear of venereal disease. And here the key demographic should be considered: many of the men who secured P.’s services were resoundingly middle-class, very probably married, therefore unlikely to risk contracting any kind of infection that could be passed on to their wives or regular g
irlfriends. Still this doesn’t account for the inconsistency in numbers, and the lack of concomitant symptoms found in prostitutes and those who used their services compared to those found in homosexual males. One theory suggests a longer incubation period may occur in females infected (although, at this early stage of the operation, we have no way of verifying this with any kind of scientific certainty).
Whatever the outcome, the success of the experiment cannot be denied. If the scope of any similar operation was increased I have no doubt that the agency could eliminate huge numbers of undesirables from society in the most cost-effective manner, such is the purity of the methodology, where those not adhering to social norms of behaviour, the drug users and sexual profligates, would actively be eliminating themselves, in effect, signing their own death warrants.
At the end of the report was a comments box.
Leave Comments Below:
From: TexasBorderControl@ShoottoKill
This sounds like the perfect kind of program. If some filthy junkie drop-out injects themselves with a dirty needle and gets infected with a fatal disease – good. One less waste of space to worry about. Same goes for any sexual deviant, fornicator or philanderer, those who don’t live by the Good Book. If you’re gonna fall in and out of bed with all comers, and if you ain’t got the gumption to use a simple condom, then you deserve everything you get. This program might have originated with the C.I.A. but is clearly God’s way of weeding out undesirables. Let their own miserable passions destroy them. Deviants riddled with sexual infection deserve no better. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Poetic justice. Making the world a cleaner, better, far more harmonious place.
Directly below the top comment, Katie was shocked to see that Jacqueline had also left a message, a retort to a similar bigoted rant.
From: JacqueFrank89
You self-righteous bastards don’t know what you’re talking about. What about people infected with things like H.I.V. through blood transfusions? What about people infected who were in serious relationships, people who don’t deserve to have their lives ruined? When it comes down to it, not everyone suffering from sexual infections are deviants or undesirables. When it comes down to it, men should always wear condoms, because they’re the complacent, irresponsible bastards who spread these things around!!!!
Chapter Fifteen
Post Written on Jacqueline Franklin’s Facebook Page, 31st October 2014
From: Kevin Little - 03: 21 a.m.
Lads, don’t go near this skanky Jacqueline Franklin bitch, she’s riddled with VD. Trust me. I know from experience. Hope she rots in hell, the filthy slut. Mark my words. She’s going to get exactly what she deserves.
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Priestly got into the car and handed Hepworth a hard copy of Little’s Facebook post.
“My word,” he said. “Just like Jonathan Reynolds from the dating website. Looks like Miss Franklin has made herself another enemy.” He handed the print-out back to Priestly. “But I don’t think I’d have been too keen to advertise a sexually transmitted infection on social media.”
“He was probably drunk.”
“I’d say. And if nothing else it backs up the Wells boy’s story about our missing woman going around spreading a sexual disease.” He turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. “Have you checked into Little’s background yet?”
“Works in a local bookmakers, thirty-four-years-old, lives alone, two cautions for possession of small amounts of cannabis, but, by all accounts, a pretty average small town nobody.”
“Okay, good.” Hepworth checked the rearview mirror. “We’ll pay him a visit at some stage. For now, let’s go and see this Bogdanovic, the tattoo artist.”
The dirt-track leading to Bogdanovic’s homestead was rutted with deep, wide potholes, making the lane difficult to negotiate. On either side of the track were high grassy banks, beyond them woodland and fields. By the entranceway, where a gate of some kind had once been sited, stood two wooden posts, around twelve feet apart, no more than stakes in the ground. On top of the right-hand post was what looked like a pig’s skull; draped over the left post the skeletal remains of dozens of small animals – rodents, rabbits, cats – the bones tied together with string, like puppets, thick rope dangling from each neck, like a gallows scene. Behind this post, on a grass verge, stood a plywood sign with the words The Boge daubed on it in dark-red paint, decorated with long elegant feathers, maybe peacock feathers.
“What do you make of this, Dan? – some kind of animal sacrifice?”
Hepworth didn’t answer; he was too struck by the curious scene opening up before him: two static caravans, side by side, both ramshackle, with rusted outer shells and boarded-up windows, behind them a series of wooden outbuildings (maybe former stables), a large pen housing scores of mud-spattered pigs, a dilapidated tin shed containing plastic drum-like containers, an old red telephone box, hundreds of garden gnomes, all painted black and white, two stuffed crocodiles by a large area of scorched, blackened earth, what looked like a barbeque pit with charred iron stakes shoved into the ground.
“What a place!” Hepworth parked up, unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “I don’t think I’ve ever–”
“Hold on.” Priestly grabbed his arm. “Those two don’t look too friendly.”
Fighting dogs, Irish Terriers with long snouts, both shackled to a lengthy metal chain attached to one of the outbuildings, scampered over, barking, growling, straining at the leash, baring vicious teeth.
“What shall we do, Dan?”
Hepworth pumped the horn twice.
“Wait. Hope this Bogdanovic character is at home.”
Almost immediately, a caravan door swung open, and out stepped an incredibly tall, incredibly skinny man with colourful tattoos and shiny piercings all over his face and body. With hollowed-out, concave cheeks, long matted, jet-black hair, he wore a filthy vest and loose camouflage trousers tucked into army boots, had countless tribal beads around his neck, and feathered earrings dangling past his shoulders, like Red Indian adornments.
Hepworth, one eye on the dogs, wound down the window.
“Mr Bogdanovic,” he shouted, to be heard above the barking and growling, the snapping and snarling. “We’re police officers. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Bogdanovic answered without breaking stride:
“I know why you’ve sought me out.” He took hold of the metal chain and, with a strength belying his emaciated frame, dragged the two dogs back inside one of the outbuildings.
When he reappeared, he picked up a plastic bucket and walked over to the pigpen.
“Well,” said Priestly, “I suppose that’s about as close to a welcome as we’re going to get.”
They got out of the car and walked over to the pigpen. His back to them, an elbow resting on the top railing, Bogdanovic scattered handfuls of grain-like feed into the pen. Inside, the pigs snaffled and snorted away, roughly jostling for position.
“Strange,” whispered Priestly.
“Yes,” Hepworth whispered back. “And I’ve got a feeling this is just the beginning.”
Once they’d sidled up alongside Bogdanovic, Hepworth coughed and cleared his throat.
“As I said, Mr Bogdanovic, we need to ask you a few questions.”
“All in good time,” was his distracted reply. “A noble creature is the pig, one of God’s finest. Bright, companionable, got the same skin as us humans, you know. And that’s not the only similarity. Each one has its own unique personality, mannerisms, the way they snout around, so full of curiosity. In many ways they’re like young children, into everything, grabbing this and shaking that, ’cause they’re seeing or feeling it for the very first time. Yeah. You won’t find a better friend than one these here porkers.” He turned to face the police officers, his eyes, circled with mascara, were possessed of such an intense, unsettling brightness, they looked almost unreal. “If you wanna talk, best we get ourselves inside, for a hard rai
n’s gonna fall in ’bout six minutes and twenty-four seconds.”
***
“In here” – Bogdanovic opened a flimsy wooden door – “is my waste receptacle-come-compost-heap.” The stench that wafted out of the grotty toilet unit had both officers covering their faces. On the floor stood a standard toilet bowl (without a seat) filled to the brim with old potato and carrot peelings, used teabags, and what looked like a sizeable lump of human excrement. “Got a pipe running over to my vegetable plot, see. Won’t get fresher, healthier produce, that you won’t. You can have a bag of my lettuces to take back with you, if you like.”
“Please, Mr Bogdanovic,” said Hepworth. “We really need to –”
“And here’s where I skin and hang my meat.” He pointed to the carcasses, the rabbits, pigeons and pheasants hanging above the sink. “All good local stuff, best around.”
“Very impressive,” said Priestly. “But we need to speak to you about a missing person, a friend of yours, we believe, a Miss Jacqueline Franklin.”
Bogdanovic gave a visible start; his whole demeanour changed, stiffened.
“Aye, I know.” He gestured to the worn banquette. “Sit down over there. I’ll help you best I can.”
Hepworth sat down first, taking in the cluttered, filthy surroundings, the windows (those which weren’t boarded-up) grimy and covered in mildew, the rubbish bags (containing what, it was impossible to tell) stacked next to piles of old, yellowed newspapers and magazines.
“So, you’re well acquainted with Miss Franklin, then?”
Bogdanovic, still standing in the kitchenette, his arms folded across his chest, nodded his head.
“That I am,” he said. “I s’pose you’ve come to talk ’bout this.” He thrust his wrist forward, into the relative light, showing them a tattoo of a woman’s face, a woman with long dark hair and heavy make-up around the eyes, a face both Priestly and Hepworth instantly recognised as Jacqueline Franklin.
