by Sean Platt
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Boricio Goes Camping
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Sean Platt & David W. Wright
Boricio Goes Camping
By Sean Platt & David W. Wright
SOMETIMES WE NEED TO LET THE MONSTER OUT…
Boricio Wolfe, the serial killer from the bestselling Yesterday’s Gone series, is trying to be good and settle down to a normal life with his new girlfriend who has no idea what kind of monster he was.
However, when he finds out that his friend Mary’s young daughter is being harassed by a sex offender, he must make a decision — to let things be and hope the police will take care of the matter, or does he decide to let the monster out and get back to what he does best — killing?
Spoiler Alert: Boricio is gonna get back to killing and deliver the kind of vigilante justice that only a guy like Boricio can deliver.
This short story takes place between Seasons Three and Four of the Yesterday’s Gone series. There are minor spoilers if you’ve not yet read those books in the series.
WARNING: This book is about a serial killer, is chock full of bad language, and contains material some people may be offended by. It is intended for adult audiences only. No, really, we mean it. If you’re easily offended, run, don’t walk, as far away from this story as you can.
Boricio Goes Camping
By Sean Platt & David W. Wright
Copyright © 2014 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved.
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Boricio Goes Camping
Note: This story contains a minor spoiler for Season Four of Yesterday’s Gone. If you’ve not yet read Season Four, you may want to hold off on reading this story. The story takes place a few months before Season Four, but does spoil something referenced in this season.
Boricio’s phone call with Mary had been 14 minutes of the bitch’s tits. It started nice with the promise of mayhem and purging, but quickly turned and was now making him feel like someone had woken up on the wrong side of his dick.
Boricio yelled into the phone. “Now why in the hell would you tell me something like that, and not let me do anything about it?” Boricio sent his voice into a higher-pitched mockery of Mary’s: “Hey Boricio, I’m planning on heading out to Six Flags with Paola, figured I’d tell you all about it, invite you along, but just so you know you won’t be going on any of the rides or getting any of the snacks, and not just because it’s $18 for a funnel cake mind you — I just thought you’d like some teasing!”
“You can’t do anything, Boricio! You promised,” Mary said for the 1,285th time. “I have to do things the right way; there are laws to follow.”
“Laws? What the fuck, Mary? Laws are there to fence in the sheeple, wolves can always find their ways through the slats. You’ve got to see the spirit in that shit, not the letter. Violate God’s laws and you’re a sinner, violate Man’s laws and you’re a crook — violate the laws of common sense and you’re an idiot, begging for bad shit to happen to you. Not that I’m calling you an idiot, Mary. I just think in this particular instance you might be a bit misguided.”
It had been going on like that for a while, and a Boricio who had only recently learned to gather patience and focus his purging was getting jittery fingers and itchy in his nethers. Proud Mary wasn’t getting it, and Boricio was hoping that since logic wasn’t working, maybe he could finally just wear her down.
“There’s one way to handle a pervert, Mary — you’ve gotta cut their pecker at the tip.” Boricio waited a beat to see if she would protest like the other times, but she was worn down enough to let it go and let Boricio get to speechifying. “It’s better to cut off the tip than the whole thing. Fuckers don’t learn crap unless they have to look at shit. When a pervert has to stare at a stub every time he’s pissing through his straw, well, that leaves the universe grinning at karma.”
“No, Boricio,” Mary said. “And wouldn’t it be the other way around? Wouldn’t Karma be grinning at the Universe?”
“You’re focusing on the wrong parts of this conversation. You have to focus on the math, here. And I don’t have to kill him, just eliminate the danger, or at least dilute it. The equation’s simple: Less dick equals less danger.”
“No, Boricio, I’m serious. Don’t do anything stupid!”
Boricio sighed into the phone, gritting his teeth.
Mary had called to jaw on some scumbag, sex-offending load of smack daddy who should’ve been swallowed, then right away went all merry-go-round and started talking about preserving life, as if the diddler deserved to live one. Boricio had a liberal view of who should live and who should die. Animals who touched children like grownups when they weren’t old enough to understand that they were having their forevers knotted with diseased parts of their soul then dunked into a tar of shamed misery that festered like a herpes-infested whore were at the bottom of his list.
Some fuck face who deserved a dick of swords to his dirt hole had been driving by Paola’s bus stop, peeping on girls. A day before Mary call
ed Uncle Boricio to bitch, the pile of shit had driven straight up to Paola. Motherfucker rolled down his window and said, “You smell just like a flower,” then sat their smiling until Paola stood from the bench and walked away. Mary wasn’t even finished telling Boricio her story before he was picturing himself taking a Black & Decker to the kiddy diddler and leaving him in piles, before getting his art on — which Boricio hadn’t done since his particular brand of mayhem had turned to ordered purging.
“I don’t like how quiet you’re being.” Mary said, her voice sharp. “Promise me you won’t do anything. I want to handle this right, Boricio. Go to the police; file a report.”
“Are you yanking my Yankee Doodle and not expecting any Dandy? You think a stack of papers is gonna do doodly-shit when Pedobear grabs Paola and yanks her into his rolling rape closet?”
“Boricio!” Mary admonished him with her tone. “The man is a registered sex offender. They’ll probably lock him up if I file a report. Or at least keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah, right, like the Keystone Kops ain’t got nothing else to do but stare at kiddy diddler’s picket fences. And don’t use the word man, he’s not a man. The kiddy diddler is a registered child fucker. Say shit like it is. I’m telling you, Proud Mary, the big wheel will keep on turning, and you need to take this shit seriously. This ain’t some guy checkin’ from afar to appreciate Paola’s flowers getting to blooming under her sweater; this kiddy diddler went up to her at the bus stop and said shit that gets fuckers choking on dirt! That diddler’s had his dribbler somewhere it wasn’t supposed to be already, sure as shit, and if he hasn’t, he’s scrambling the ladder three rungs at a time. A high rung is saying shit to girls while they’re waiting for a bus. It’s like a rung after that when they’re palming their peckers in front of them. Any jail toy fuck box who would drive up to a girl as young as Paola and say what he did is begging to get caught. And he’s just inches from diving into the deep end and doing some real heinous shit, Mary. Fuckers like that escalate quick, believe me.”
Mary said, “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Are you asking about escalation or kiddy diddling, Mary? Because Boricio is many things, with none of ‘em nothing but nice on accident, but I ain’t never done nothin’ like that, and would’ve chopped my own hand off and made my pile of shit self eat it if I had.”
Boricio breathed, in and out, trying not to snarl, surprised at the edge on his anger, and how willing he was to bury it for the sake of their … friendship.
Boricio had only recently realized that Mary was his friend.
His life had been filled with plenty of allies, most temporary, but no actual friends. Ever. In some ways, hopefully most ways, Boricio couldn’t give a squirt of cock spit what Mary thought about him, just like he couldn’t have given a squirt for anyone else in the world. For most of his life it was Earth and Boricio. Maybe heaven and hell, but probably not. Now there was a part of him — he was tired of arguing with himself or feigning like it wasn’t there — that did care what Mary thought of him because she was his friend. That part of Boricio swallowed how bothered he was that she could think he would do something like that.
Sure, he had raped and murdered, and there was that “necrophilia incident” that one time, but it had been after the world had ended and some people might even say it was justified, but anyways that was before Luca had fixed him. Even at his worst, Boricio had never taken to raping kids. Any fucker who did that deserved to spend eternity hung upside down with three Rock-sized fuckers around him, one shoving his throbber into the diddler’s mouth hard enough to shatter his teeth, the other in his rusty sheriff’s badge, and the third guy getting his jollies twisting the diddler’s control center with a pair of rusty pliers.
“I wasn’t saying you were interested in children,” Mary said. “I was referring to escalation. Was that some sort of sexual thing to you?”
Boricio shook his head. “Now, now, Mary, Boricio’s life is like the Bible. You can open it anywhere and you’re bound to learn something, and because you and I are tight like we are I’ll always leave it on the table for you to peruse, but I suggest thinking long and hard about the questions you ask, because I can supercalafrajafuckingguarantee you’re gonna hate what you hear. But you don’t need to know what’s stuffed in Boricio’s big, black book to believe I can hear it clear when fuckers are ticking and about to tock because I know what’s greasing their cogs. I ain’t ever touched a kid, but guys like this … these are the fuckers you see on the news when police are pulling bodies from the yard and neighbors are on TV all stupid-faced and saying, ‘We had no idea the camp counselor with the rape ‘stache was actually a molester.’ They start small, but once they approach a kid, all bets are off.”
Mary was quiet, maybe reconsidering Boricio’s offer to give the diddler a visit. Or maybe she didn’t want to say anything on the phone, because fuck knew the government kept tabs tight enough to know when you sharted. Maybe Mary was speaking in code, and did want Boricio to finish the diddler.
“Why the fuck is Paola even taking the bus, anyway?” Boricio barked, as if the whole thing was Mary’s fault. “You work from home, can’t you drive your kid to school?”
“She wanted to take the bus,” Mary said defensively. “Her friends take the bus, so do some of the girls she wants to be friends with. It’s not like she has that many. Since coming back, well, it’s hard for her, and I want her to have friends, something resembling a normal life. But now she’s stopped taking the bus.”
“Well that’s relieving. Now you can rest assured that neither of you are total fucking idiots.”
“You know, you don’t always have to be such an asshole,” Mary said. “The camera’s not always on.”
Boricio had a dozen responses, any would work, but Mary being a friend somehow changed it. Like it changed his thinking when speaking to Rose.
“This is the only show Boricio TV broadcasts, sister.”
“Well, someone should fix that. The show is insulting, and you’re likely to lose viewers.”
“Oh I supercalafrajafuckingguarantee viewers are dropping like flies, saying how awful I am, making them feel like maggots crawling from trashcans, and that I’m horrible enough to dull a good man’s faith in the Lord, but the entertained are entertained.” Boricio shrugged, even though Mary couldn’t see her. “I’m comfortable not pleasing everyone.”
Mary sighed, then silence. Boricio could hear her thinking. Finally she said, “I have to pick up Paola. Can you promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”
“No,” Boricio said. “You’ll have to make me promise something else. I think you meant to say, ‘Can you please not do anything to eliminate the threat against my daughter?’ You asked me to let the inevitable slap Paola since leaving the threat breathing a few blocks from your front door is the stupidest goddamned thing I could do. I get it — you wanna be all Mary Tyler Pollyanna and ‘follow the rules’ even though the only rule that rapists have is looking for their favorite variety of hole to bury their dick. Fine. I, Boricio Wolfe, so solemnly swear not to do the right fucking thing and rip off this diddler’s dick and make him eat it in a sammich.”
“I guess that will do,” Mary said.
Boricio wished he could see her. You could only hear some of what someone was thinking on the phone. In person you could see every twitch and blink, each flinch or bead on the brow. In person, Boricio was a mind reader.
He gave Mary the old adios, heart beating fast as he hung up the phone, feeling something that wasn’t exactly anger or rage, but wasn’t exactly unlike it either.
Luca hadn’t fixed Boricio so much as focused him.
He still had the same urges, but aimless was never OK. Boricio’s attention was always on not getting caught. He followed a few rules like religion. Outside of that, Boricio’s id was the boss. Now that wasn’t enough. What was once Boricio’s id now sounded like his higher self. His bar for what was worthy of purging fell down to his ankles. B
oricio didn’t realize his killing had been wrong before, until after Luca’s fixing and his return to the first world. Now he felt thirst with hunger. If hunger was killing, thirst was direction. And a man couldn’t eat without drinking.
Mary’s phone call had promised the sating of Boricio’s thirst and hunger, but then she took it away.
Boricio wandered from the living room back to the bedroom he shared with Rose, and over to her closet. He didn’t have one. Boricio had three stacks of clothing: jeans, tees, assorteds, and one box for socks and underwear (he rarely wore either). Boricio’s three, small stacks and one box occupied a small table to the side of their bed. Rose took the closet.
At the back of her closet, Rose kept a box.
Boricio didn’t think of things in terms of happy places, but when Rose said the freezer was her happy place since it kept her Ben & Jerry’s safe when she wasn’t eating it, Boricio laughed out loud thinking about his own happy place, and how he always smiled around it, not just as he lifted the lid and drew out the contents, but in the minutes before he knew he was going to — making a cup of coffee, staring through the window watching people as they passed, or taking a shower and realizing the afternoon was his and that afternoon was always a good time to know his morning Rose a bit better. Boricio would open the closet door and inhale Rose’s scent, her life as it smelled, soaked into the pores of her clothing.
