by Aric Davis
The tattooed bitch had been a start—a good start—toward some of what had been lost in the two before her. Some of the action had been gone with them. They hadn’t fought him right, they’d tried to placate him, and he’d hurried to just be done with them. That’s not how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to fight him, and they were supposed to die. The one bitch that begged for it was good, but the tattooed girl had fought tooth and nail and still paid the price.
Waiting for Shawna and Tasha was getting rougher, even though he still had the tattooed bitch to play with. It wouldn’t matter—he could wait until tomorrow. She was going to be back with her sweet little babe, but Shawna was going to wish she was still in Florida when she saw Phil.
It took about eight to ten cans to put him down lately, and he could already feel the paunch growing around his waist. Not a big deal, but something to wonder about. How many cans would it be in a month, and why was he having trouble sleeping in the first place? Once he fell asleep, that was where the fun began. They came to him the right way at night, suffering as they should have in real life, fighting back better than they had and finally acquiescing to pleasure before being killed. It was a nice place to be, and tonight would be the last time with true clarity for the tattooed bitch. Tomorrow she got replaced, so tonight had to special.
He drank the beer at the table, in the dining room of the little house. The box sat on the table, he sat on a chair, and soon enough there were more cans on the table than in the box. This was what he thought of as private drinking. You couldn’t pound beers like this in front of other people, just like you couldn’t talk in front of other people about not being able to get it up unless she didn’t want it, but it was pretty nice to think about what was going to happen tomorrow, while drinking slowly warming beer.
The one bad thought was a constant bad thought: What would happen when he got caught? It was stuck in his head like a chicken bone in a dog’s neck, and it never came loose easy. Being caught was bad, and he wasn’t altogether sure it was even good to think about. Prison would probably be OK for a big guy like him, he wasn’t worried about that part of it, but prison would mean no more games. No watching, no catching, and no finishing. It would also mean he’d never again figure out when was going to be next. Right now next meant tomorrow, and that was sweet.
Watching used to be enough; just knowing that he could was enough after that. Now things had to be finished, and someday, he could feel it, even finishing might not be enough. Maybe he’d keep one and try and train her in his basement for a while. That would take a lot of work, though.
And besides, it was pretty easy to kill them, but people looked harder when somebody just disappeared—the news had taught him that much. His work usually got featured for a day or two, and then somebody else did something and chased him off of the TV. That was fine—the celebrity buzz was nice, but every time he was on TV there was focus on him, and every time he killed there was that much more focus than there’d ever been before.
Phil finished his beer and moved it with the rest of the empty ones. Time to piss.
It took about an hour to finish the rest of the twelve-pack, and by the time it was gone, Phil was tottering on the brink of being very drunk. It was going to be a bitch to wake up in the morning, but that was OK. There was a lot to look forward to, and even sleep would be nice. He thought with some regret that he was probably too drunk to dream, but if he wasn’t, it was time to show that tattooed slut one last time who was boss. The baby was an interesting bit, too: leaving a witness who would never be able to tell anyone what had happened, or who had done it. He’d let Shawna see him. It was nice when they recognized that the man who’d given them a hand with the flat or carrying groceries or whatever else was also the man who was going to kill them. The recognition was a nice payoff.
He lay in bed with the TV on and let the talking heads put him down. It took just a few minutes after all the beer, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Phil woke the same way he had every night since he’d killed the tattooed bitch: tied to his bed. She’d looked like she’d be into some shit like that; hell, she might have liked what he’d done to her, for all he knew.
So he wasn’t too drunk to dream!
He tested the tension of the restraints at his wrists but didn’t break free yet; it was much too early for that. She walked in a few minutes later—long enough, he knew, to let him sweat a bit, maybe about being tied up. Joke would be on her in a minute. He smiled, both in the dream and across his sleeping, drooling face.
She wore electrical tape across her nipples to cover them, and she had a red corset on beneath her breasts that sucked her waist in. She was bare beneath that, save for a pair of high-heeled patent leather boots that matched the corset. On her hands were gloves that went to the elbow, gloves the same color as the boots and corset. It was a nice outfit and one that suited her well. Most of the other girls would have looked ridiculous in it, but he never had power fantasies like this with them, either. They just weren’t like that. In her right hand was a riding crop that she was paddling herself lightly on the leg with, each little cracking swat reminiscent of the .22 he’d killed squirrels and that one puppy with when he was a boy. It was a nice sound, familiar.
She used the crop first on his stomach. It was as bare as she was below the corset, and each strike felt like a numbed sting from a wasp, leaving little red marks where the crop had been. She tapped lightly on his genitals, and he could feel himself growing. It would be time to break free soon.
She dropped the crop and crawled onto the bed next to him. This was new—normally she just whipped him a bit and then he got free. She ran a gloved finger down his belly and tapped his prick with it before rolling onto her stomach beside him and tucking both hands underneath her chin. They locked eyes and she spoke:
“I’m going to do things to you up here.”
She pointed to her head.
“But you’re going to feel them everywhere, feel them like they’re really happening to you. You won’t be able to make me stop, and I’m not going to ever stop. I’m going to do to you what people have paid me a lot of money to do, only I don’t think anyone would pay for exactly what I’m going to do to you. When I’m done I’m going to start over again. And again, and again, and again.
“When you confess what you’ve been doing—I mean to the cops, when you’re awake—I might stop. I might never stop, though, and you need to remember that. This could happen forever, and nothing you do or say can make me stop. I will consider it, though, maybe even give you a night or two off, if you confess. Hell, maybe it’ll stop altogether. I wouldn’t count on that, though. This is going to be fun.”
Phil was struggling at the restraints harder than he’d ever had to before by the time she’d really started talking, and now his face was red with the effort. He flung his body away from the bed while she watched, but he landed still restrained. Which was impossible. It couldn’t be happening, because this was his world, this was fucking his.
“Cut me loose, bitch. Untie these fucking things.”
She laughed, still next to him on the bed, and he didn’t like the sound. It was fingernails on glass, worse, to hear her laugh like that, like she was the one with the power, like she was god.
“I said cut me loose, bitch. I won’t hurt you.”
She laughed again, longer this time, and now he really did pull at the restraints. He threw himself as hard as he could, hard enough that the bedposts themselves should have shattered. For the first time he noticed that his legs were tied, too—how had he not noticed that?—and his legs had never been tied. He flailed one last time, bringing his legs and arms together with all the power he could muster. Nothing happened.
Still laughing, she slipped off of the bed. She said, “You know, I have to admit I like the outfit. Red’s not really my favorite color, kinda whorish, and I definitely would’ve included underwear, but it’s still pretty good.”
The light in the room no longer seemed to come from the lamp; it was behind her, spreading tendrils of illumination throughout the room. What he’d thought was his bedroom was much larger now, and the spaces that should have been walls and closets were not there at all. Phil could hear a squeaking and dragging coming closer.
Looking down between his feet he saw one of them. But not as she’d been; she was how he’d left her. He couldn’t remember her name at first, but then it struck him even harder than the riding crop had. Angela.
She was pushing a steel cart that was covered in a sheet or towel—he couldn’t lift his head enough to tell. Her face was battered and ruined, and her clothing was shredded and rotten. Her left leg dragged behind her obscenely, and he remembered the thrill of crushing it under his boot, only now that thrill was replaced with a deep revulsion. She was damaged goods at best, the kind of thing he’d never have considered for one of his projects. She also held the towel now, and he could just barely see the tray, but whatever was on it shined.
The tattooed bitch laughed, used something he couldn’t see to cut his boxers off of him, and then laughed again.
While he’d been watching her, Phil had missed something: the bed was surrounded with them now, surrounded by them as he’d left them. They were ruined, all of them except for the tattooed bitch, and now she held a small blade aloft. It looked like something attached to a pen. She leaned over his left leg, her breasts hanging pendulously, and said, “I’m going to hurt you just a little bit, and then you can think for a second about what I said.”
“Fuck you, cunt.”
“No, not today.”
She took something off of the tray, he couldn’t see what, and then knelt over his leg. First nothing and then—fire.
A burning like he’d never known, and he near to swooned as she worked at his ankle. Hours or minutes later—or fuck, was it just a few seconds?—she rose. In her hand was a pair of scissors that looked like the roach clips he had in the drawer, and in the teeth of them was a ribbon, a dripping ribbon.
“This is the skin that covered the outside of your ankle. I want you to remember this piece in the morning and think about what I said. We’re going to do this whole leg—I know how—and you shouldn’t lose consciousness or fade like you’ll want to. And if you do pass out…”
She held a small red cylinder aloft.
“…then this is going in your pisshole. Just the tiniest little firecracker, a little Black Cat. But it will feel much, much bigger if it goes off.”
Behind and around her the other women were swaying—their bodies were destroyed, but their split lips spread to bare smiling teeth.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll be here with us. Remember what I said, and remember that little Black Cat.”
She moved away from him, went back to the tray, and returned to his leg. It was slow work, and he could tell she was enjoying it.
“Some jobs, even the worst jobs, have to get done just right, and this is one of them. To hurry through it wouldn’t be right, Phil. I think we’ll get a little break once I get all the skin off of your thigh.”
He was sweating profusely, and he could see that she was starting to as well. The pain from the leg was unbearable—twice flashes of light had threatened to take him, but the memory of the firecracker had kept him awake. The kneecap was still attached, but it hung loosely and the usually pained knee was numb—and gone. That was a problem.
Deb pushed the first needle, an eight gauge, through Phil’s left cheek. It was tough to work it through—cheeks are thick, she thought, even here—but it made its way eventually. The second cheek was harder; the first had dulled the needle. She worked all over his face in the same way, as he dipped in and out of consciousness. He suffered, and that was OK. He still had some screams left when she removed his balls, first one and then the other. It was hard to pick, but she’d started with the left leg, and so the left gonad went first. They separated easier than she’d expected.
When he went, it was screaming, but with relief. He was happy to be given the privilege of death, she could tell. It was so much better than he deserved, and Deb made his last breath a whistle by opening his trachea. He hissed his existence in a crimson spray.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Phil woke tied to his bed.
He tested his wrist restraints, but didn’t snap them yet.
The tattooed bitch came in with her electrical-taped nipples and her red corset and matching high-heeled patent leather boots and elbow-length gloves. She paddled herself with her riding crop. That nice, cracking sound.
The tattooed bitch said, “You thought I was fucking around?”
She used the crop on his dick, and he could feel the blood running out of him in more ways than one.
“That was a fucking dream, bitch!”
The walls were gone, and she was surrounded already with the rest.
“Remember what I said,” she said. “This might never stop.”
When she removed his dick and threw it onto his chest, he tried to shake it off, but he was too immobilized, and it stayed where she’d discarded it. Phil dealt as best he could while she cut. Just as in her old work, she was slow and thorough, a perfectionist. It was horrible, but she finished both legs before he passed.
Deb didn’t mind—she’d have another go soon enough.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Mike awakened not to Deb’s face, but to the faces of Doc, Lamar, and Becky, just as she’d said he would.
Doc looked as he felt, weak, beaten, and awful.
Lamar said, “Mike, you look like shit.”
“Thanks. There anything to eat around here?”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Bad enough you leave me and Becky to run shit for a month—how you think it makes me feel to know you ain’t gonna eat without me there to tell you to?”
“I’m sorry.”
Doc interrupted. “Did you dream?”
“Yes. Have you slept? Fuck, what time is it? Doc—”
“Mike, everything’s fine.”
Mike stood; he’d been lying on the couch in the living room of the little apartment. “What do you mean, fine?” He glanced to Lamar and Becky, then said to Doc, “We still have work to do.”
“We would have, but that work would have needed doing yesterday. In any case, you’ll be happy to know that the man suspected of killing Deb, Annie, and the rest of those poor women has turned himself in.”
“He did? I slept a whole day? Are they sure it’s him?”
Becky said, “They’re sure, Mike. Relax. They caught that fucker. I guess he just couldn’t take the guilt anymore.”
Mike smiled. “Guilt or something like it.”
“Yeah. Anyways, boss man who ignores my phone calls, Doc here says you’ll be available to help Lamar with some interviews tomorrow. And that is as far back as I can push these particular interviews, so you need to lose the junkie look as fast as possible. You really do look terrible.”
“Thanks. Is the store open today?”
Lamar said, “No, Doc told me and Becky he had a feeling that you would want to see us when you woke up. You got some pissed customers waiting on you, my friend.”
“At least they’re waiting. If we’re closed, let’s go get some food. Anybody else want some sushi? I’m buying.”
It turned out that, in fact, everyone else did want sushi.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
He’d walked into the police station naked. They’d left that out on the news, but there was a whole lot they left out besides that, and a whole lot more they’d never even been told.
Under his arm he carried a box full of souvenirs to make sure they’d believe him, because maybe if it were over quick she wouldn’t come back. He’d set the box on the desk, and then they were all over him, because he was naked and in a police station.
What they didn’t understand was that he’d woken up naked, his boxers slit up both sides by that little knife, and that she’d said
to come right in. They didn’t even want to listen at first, but when he was screaming and fighting with them the little treasure box of souvenirs fell to the floor and spilled, and then they’d had no choice but to listen.
He went to a holding cell. They gave him clothing that was too small, but still better than being naked, and he’d waited. He talked to two detectives that day. He had to sign a written confession first, then say everything he’d done to a camera while they asked him the same things again, and he’d been honest because she’d said to be honest, and he’d been polite because she’d said to be polite. When it was finished they left, and when they came back they were going to the hospital.
The two detectives were at the hospital when he got there, but they weren’t with him on the trip. He’d ridden in the back of a van with two men in padded suits who held shotguns. They chained his wrists and ankles, affixed those chains to his waist, and then those chains were bolted to the floor and the bench behind him. He didn’t talk on the trip because no one asked him anything, but if they had he would have told them. He would have told them anything.
They made him ride a wheelchair into the hospital, which was funny because he wasn’t sick, but the detective told him not to talk when he protested about it. They took a special elevator up, he and the two detectives, as well as the two guys with shotguns. A hospital orderly pushed the chair for him, and he seemed like a pretty nice guy—at least he was smiling. They brought him down a hallway, past a couple of doors they had to be buzzed through, and then finally they were at his room.
