Sex and Murder

by Douglas Allen Rhodes

  He stepped to my window, bent down to look in, and tilted his head to one side in an attempt to appear menacing. “Slide over, white boy,” he said. “I gotta drive.”

  I quickly slid over to the passenger’s side, scooping up the .45 in my right hand, making sure to keep it out of the dealer’s sight. I continued to give off the aura of fear he expected from me.

  He climbed behind the wheel and adjusted the seat controls, manipulating them first one way and then the other until the seat sat far away from the steering wheel, leaned as far back as it could. He motioned and gestured to his crew, said, “Ah’right then,” and stepped on the gas.

  Using his middle finger, he motioned towards the radio. “Put some black shit on this mutha fucka.”

  I complied.

  “How much cheese you got?” he asked.

  “Six-hundred-fifty dollars,” I said. “If you wanna stop at the ATM, I can get more.”

  He smiled wide and let out a loud, barking “jyaaah”. He said, “We gonna stop at the ATM ah’right. You still a couple hundred short.”

  We drove for a few blocks more, and I decided we’d driven far enough away from his home turf to start the second phase of my plan. I pulled the .45 out while he bopped along to some asinine radio-rap and placed it against his temple.

  “Awww, bitch!” he spat, shaking his head in anger.

  “Let me explain this…,” I started. “No, no, keep driving. That’s right. Now, I’m not some dumb frat boy. Oh, no, what I am is one very pissed off mother-fucker whose got a .45 to your head and a round already in the chamber.”

  His left hand slid away from the wheel towards his coat. I jabbed the barrel of my gun into his temple.

  “Get your fuckin’ hand back on the wheel. You think I’m fuckin’ playing?”

  “Naw, man, ah’right,” he snapped. “What the fuck you want?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, calm. “Now listen. You’re gonna drive until I tell you to stop. If you stop before I tell you to, take your hands off that wheel again, or say anything at all that sounds like a Tupac lyric, I’m gonna spray what little brains you’ve got out the window. Now, go get on 77 South.”

  He turned towards the highway, and I reached into his parka, keeping the barrel of the .45 pressed against his temple hard enough to remind him I meant business. A 9mm and a small sack of crack rocks rested in his waistband. I took both of them out and stashed them in the glove compartment. I popped a Screeching Weasel CD (Kill the Musicians) into the player. Punkhouse came on, and I relaxed back into my seat, got comfortable, and propped my left arm up on the back of my seat, the barrel of the .45 still pointed at my dealer’s head.

  We turned onto 77 and journeyed south for about two hours. I kept my new chauffer quiet (or, rather, the .45 kept him quiet) and played him a nice medley of punk favorites from Bad Religion, Circle Jerks, and Agent Orange. Just for some variety, I threw in some ska by the Bosstones before switching back to a little punk from the Rollins Band.

  We reached an exit around a mile up from the one I wanted. I poked the gun harder against his temple. “Get off here.”

  He pulled onto the exit ramp, and I had him turn left and drive down a deserted country road.

  “Pull over and turn off the engine,” I ordered.

  “What the fuck you gonna…,” he began.

  I bashed the gun against his head, and he stopped short.

  “Pull over,” I repeated, “and turn off the fucking engine.”

  This time, he listened. We slowed to a stop. He cut the engine and moved to place his hands in his lap—he thought better of it before they got there and returned them to the steering wheel, one at ten, the other at two.

  “Now, listen carefully,” I said. “‘Cause you fuck it up, and I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you. I want you to get out of the car and lay face down on the ground with your hands behind your back.”

  He opened the door, and I jammed the gun against his temple—hard.

  “I didn’t say move yet,” I patronized. “See, you’re fuckin’ up already. You don’t have to die tonight, you got me? You listen, do what you’re told, and I won’t kill you. You fuck up again, and I’ll spread your brains all over this road.” I gave him a quick smile. “We’re gonna try this again—when I say go. You so much as think of trying anything, you die.”

  I lifted the armrest from between us and slid over next to him.

  “Go.”

  With languid movements, he opened the door, got out, and did everything I had told him, textbook perfect. I opened the glove compartment and popped the trunk, slid across the driver’s seat, and stepped out of the car (making sure to plant my boot heel on his back). I closed the door behind me and kicked my hostage in his ribs.

  “Ok, you’ve done all right so far,” I said. “Now, part two’s tricky, so listen carefully. You’re gonna stand up, walk around to the back of the car—slowly—and climb in the trunk.”

  That didn’t make him happy at all.

  “Man, fuck that shit, mutha fucka. I ain’t….”

  I kicked him in the head, jumped down next to him, and forced my gun into his mouth, breaking one of his front teeth. He screamed around the barrel, and I turned his face towards mine, using the .45 as a lever.

  “You think I’m fuckin’ playin’?” I said, smacking my free palm onto his forehead.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he glared at me both pitifully and hopefully, each expression battling for precedence.

  “Now, do what the fuck I told you.” I stood. “Go.”

  He climbed to his feet with caution. Blood stained his lips and ran down the corner of his mouth. He walked behind the car. At the trunk, he stopped and stood for a few seconds, staring into it. I opened my mouth to say something, to threaten him, but he lifted a leg up over the rear bumper and crawled into the trunk. Once inside, he moved to pull the trunk closed.

  “Leave it open,” I called, walking around to the back.

  I stared down at his contorted form. “You stay quiet, don’t try no funny shit, and tomorrow you’ll be back selling crack and fucking fat white girls.”

  I slammed the trunk closed and tucked the .45 into my waistband, covering it with my shirt. I ambled around to the driver’s side, but the all-too-familiar sight of red-and-blue lights stopped me short. Turning to face them, I waved and gave what I hoped would seem a friendly, innocent smile.

  The lights belonged to a sheriff’s cruiser. He turned off his engine, and I strolled over to his car. The sheriff parked about twenty feet back from mine, and I made it all the way to the front of his cruiser before he got out and leveled his pistol at me.

  “That’s far enough,” he barked through his Stacy Keach cop moustache. His triple chin quivered.

  I threw my hands up and acted scared in the most good-naturedly fashion I could manage under the circumstances. “Whoa, now. I was just comin’ back to see if you could give me some directions.”

  He relaxed somewhat. “What you doing pulled alongside the road like that?”

  “Oh, I was just looking for a map in my trunk.” I smiled. “My old lady threw me out, and I’m headed to North Carolina for a while. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even grab a map or a change of clothes.”

  “That’s women for ya.” He shook his head knowingly. “Where you headed for in North Carolina?”

  “Place called Havelock,” I said. “I used to be stationed there and I still got a couple of buddies down there who’ll put me up for a few days.”

  “You’re a Marine then, huh?” He warmed right up to me. “Used to be in myself, back in ‘Nam.”

  “Wheeew.” I whistled. “Tough days.”

  “Yup. Well, if you’re heading down south you’ll need a map all right.” He turned and pointed back the way I’d come. “There’s a filling station back yonder about a half mile past the freeway. It’s on your left. You can’t miss it. Big ol’ Shell sign.”

  He climbed back into his car. “You take care now,
Marine.”

  “You too,” I called after him, waving eagerly, “and thanks.”

  He flipped his lights off, started his engine, and drove away. I turned and walked back to my car.

  “Damnit.” I’d have to go on to another town now.

  I climbed in my car and spent close to five minutes adjusting my seat back into a comfortable position. I maneuvered the car around and re-joined the freeway.

  About fifteen miles down the highway and two exits away from the sheriff, I pulled off into town at a nice, out-of-the-way motel and stepped into the office to rent a room.

  Chapter Four

  A rheumatic-looking old man worked the desk.

  “I’d prefer a corner room around the back of the motel,” I said.

  He eyed me with suspicion, so I told him my sob story about being thrown out, adding the idea that I wanted a room in the back just in case my wife came hunting for me. That way, she wouldn’t see my car.

  He seemed to buy it and even let me register without a license (seeing as I’d left my wallet behind in my haste to leave). I paid him thirty-five dollars for the room, accepted the key to it, and got away from him before the idea to ask me any questions grabbed him.

  I parked in front of the room. The nearest occupied room to mine was ten doors down. Things seemed to be working out right—finally.

  I unlocked my room and made sure it was empty (paranoia saves lives). Leaving the door wide open, I walked to the back of my car and unlocked the trunk. I took a last, long look around to make sure no one lurked outside or peeked from darkened windows, and opened the trunk.

  My reluctant passenger scowled up at me but didn’t say anything. I drew the .45 and pointed it at his face.

  “Ok, you’re doing good.” I laughed. “At least you’ve learned to keep your mouth shut. Now, get out of the car, walk through the open door, and lie face down on the bed.”

  His eyes grew wide, but he didn’t speak or move.

  “Go.”

  He crawled out of the trunk and looked for the motel door. Finding it, he stumbled straight into the room and lay down. Just like he’d been told.

  I followed him in and shut the door. To be safe, I let him get a good look at the .45 again.

  “All right,” I mock-congratulated him, “so far, so good. I want you to stand up now, strip off the bed sheets, take off all your clothes, and lay back down. Go.”

  He stood up reluctantly, his eyes full of fear and, for the first time, nothing else. I almost burst out laughing—he looked like every prison rape story he’d ever heard played itself out in glorious Technicolor detail inside his head.

  Nonetheless, he did what I’d instructed. About two minutes later, he lay asshole naked on the bare mattress, his hands crossed behind his back.

  I gathered up his clothes and piled them on the floor. I took one of the bed sheets, rolled it into a cord of sorts, and walked over to the right side of my hostage. Sheet-rope in one hand, I placed my gun at his temple with the other.

  “Roll over and give me your left arm.”

  He complied, looking somewhat relieved to have his ass facing towards the bed instead of being exposed. I tied and knotted the sheet-cord around his wrist, eliciting a wince of pain from the dealer. I threw it behind the headboard and over to the other side of the bed. Walking around the bed, I repeated the process on his right arm.

  I bound his ankles together using his shirt. Next, I fashioned a gag by pushing his wadded up boxers into his mouth and tying them in place with his socks.

  Once I had him tied down, secure and gagged, I set about having some fun.

  I took the clip out of the .45, cocked it to discharge the chambered round, and placed the clip and extra round on the nearby nightstand.

  He watched me, noting my every movement. A little of the fear had left his eyes, replaced with the earlier hatred. Taking hold of the .45 by the barrel, I pistol-whipped him.

  The first hit struck solid cheekbone. It cracked, and his head jarred to the left. He writhed and managed to wail through the gag—but only a shadow of the noise he had intended and nothing loud enough for anyone outside of the room to hear.

  I hit him again, this time swinging the .45 backhand across his face. His nose broke under the impact, and a spray of blood shot down over his lips and chin.

  A third strike, right across his eyes, changed his wailing to all out screams of terror and rage. Still, the gag held, and, regardless of how much effort he put into his screams, they generated little in the way of noise. His pitiful cries posed me no danger.

  By the time I brought the fourth hit smashing down in the middle of his broken face, he thrashed full out, totally out of control.

  I cursed myself for not being more thorough, smacked him once more (a half-assed hit at best), and placed the bloody pistol on the nightstand.

  I still had one sheet left from the bed, so I rolled it into a cord and set to wrapping it under and around the mattress in order to strap down my hostage’s legs and stop his thrashing.

  It wasn’t easy work. He kicked me—twice—once on the shoulder, and once scoring a good shot to the side of my head, knocking me back, stunned for a second or two. I lost patience playing that game and punched him in the nuts. It not only settled him down but also changed his screams to a whimper. Finished securing his feet, I tied them tight enough that he couldn’t move them at all.

  I punched him in his balls a second time—a pretty vicious hit—to pay him back for the kick to my head. His body arched up under the impact like he’d been electrocuted. He began crying.

  That caught my attention, and I looked up. Huge tears streamed down his tattered face, mingling in his blood.

  What a mess, with his left eye hidden by a pool of blood that filled its socket and his nose torn in half (short ways) and hanging crooked. Blood stained his gag and the mattress, and several large gashes criss-crossed his face.

  Noticing all that blood for the first time made me involuntarily look to my own clothes. My pants were fine, but blood splays decorated my shirt.

  I cursed again, angry. I’d just gotten that shirt, and already this asshole had ruined it.

  I climbed onto my dealer, sat on his chest, and punched him, raining down blow after blow on his face. Each punch softened the tissue and bone a little more.

  Under the onslaught of the first few punches, he arched and bucked. After twenty or so had landed, he lay still.

  I didn’t stop, though. I pounded his unconscious form long after he’d passed out. Each time I hit him, I felt an even greater desire to hit him again—and again.

  For nearly an hour it went on like that. I pummeled his face beyond recognition, until my hands were long past aching, and numbed from the impacts.

  Finally, I stopped.

  For long moments I sat there, straddling his unmoving chest, blood soaking through my clothes. I panted and shook from the aftershocks. A fierce longing erupted within me. I threw my head back and screamed a blood-curdling roar of ungodly intensity and desire until I’d spent the last of my power, emotionally and physically.

  After I finished screaming, and my head had cleared, I realized that I’d fucked up. Coming in, I’d noted at least five other cars—four around front and the one on my side—not to mention the old man at the front desk.

  I ran through the specifics of my situation. The motel sat beside a general store, but it had been closed already when I’d arrived around six. Other than that, I hadn’t noticed much of anything. We were about a quarter-mile away from the freeway, so I figured there shouldn’t be too many hassles.

  I climbed off the bed and snatched my gun out of the small pool of congealing blood on the bedside table. I slipped it into my waistband then rummaged through the dead dealer’s clothing.

  I found the requisite beeper and cell-phone and about four hundred dollars in cash. I crammed the money in my pocket and left the rest of his things in the pile.

  Crossing the room, I reached to open the door.
A sharp rapping cut me short.

  “Everything all right in there?” called a male voice I didn’t recognize.

  I stepped back to the bed and answered, “Yeah, I’m ok, just fell in the shower. Cracked my head on the goddamn toilet.”

  “You want me to take a look at it?” the man persisted. “I’m a doctor.”

  “No, that’s all right. I don’t think anything’s wrong. It just hurt like hell.”

  He hesitated then said, “Ok, but head trauma’s nothing to take lightly.”

  I looked at the corpse on the bed and stifled a laugh.

  “You’re telling me,” I said to myself.

  “If you change your mind, I’m in room 315.”

  “Thanks.”

  I listened for a while after that, first to the sound of his footsteps leaving and then to the silence.

  I had room number 305, so I figured his must be the one I’d seen ten doors down. I considered whether anyone else had heard my scream and toyed with the idea that he’d been the only one. Maybe I could just get in my car and leave. I dismissed the thought. The doctor had to have seen my car out front. If nothing else, the old man knew what I looked like. Simply too much risk. I spent a few more minutes planning what to do before I left my room, heading to my car. Reaching the trunk, I popped it open and rummaged through it until I found a tire iron.

  I walked down to room 315 and knocked on the door—holding the tire iron down at my side and out of sight.

  “Hello?” came the now familiar voice of the doctor.

  “Hey, it’s me from 305,” I said, trying to sound hurt. “I think you’d better take a look at this after all.”

  The door opened, revealing a small Asian man in his mid to late fifties with short hair and wire-rimmed glasses. A bathrobe hung on his diminutive frame. His eyes grew wide behind his spectacles at the sight of me, and his hand shot reflexively to his mouth.

  “Oh my Lord.” He gasped. “What happened? You look….”

  I moved the tire iron into his line of sight. Words caught in his throat. I brought the iron up and swung it hard into his temple. His head rebounded from it and hit the wall with a thick, soft-sounding thud. He crumbled to the floor, leaving a large red stain where he’d impacted.