Sinister Scribblings - Volume 1

by Matt Hickman

  Cyndi nodded. "Thank you. I won't keep you long."

  "Please don't." Gerald removed his hand from his trousers and licked his fingertips, a spool of clear pre-ejaculate drooping between his lips and the slick digits. "I won't take long."

  Cyndi smiled nervously, hobbled between the curtains and disappeared.

  Gerald shifted in his seat, wiping his hand on his trousers. He held his hands in the air and interlaced his fingers, then pushed back, away from his body. He felt the muscles clench and force against one another. He imagined Cyndi's neck behind the palms, imagined her dainty neck snapping as he forced her roughly to the floor, or against one of the wall mirrors.

  He envisioned her naked form sliding along the glass, the sweaty flesh squeaking as he thrust deep into her, fucking her and killing her at the same time. He imagined the final gasps escaping her mouth as he filled her, climaxed deep inside Cyndi as her face contorted in the final throes of death.

  He imagined it would be the best yet.

  True, it would be his twenty-first in all, but it would be only the second in public, and the first in such a high profile place.

  Number twenty-two.

  What am I going to do?

  Leave the poetry for now. You need to focus. She might suspect.

  He remembered his outburst earlier, him blurting out his internal monologue.

  Enough. Do it later.

  The curtain pulled aside and Cyndi reentered the booth slowly. She wore a transparent blue shawl, one that turned her breasts blue beneath its flimsy material. Gerald licked his lips and slid his hand into his trousers. Cyndi didn’t turn, keeping her backside from view.

  "Spin around again. I want the full view."

  Cyndi sighed and did so, reluctantly. She turned. Gerald saw a bright white bandage on her buttock. She'd showered the blood away; her legs were less glittery than the rest of her exquisite form. After a full turn, Gerald reached out and took her arms. She moved in gently, spreading her legs and placing one either side of him, the knees coming to rest on the leather. Straddling her customer, Cyndi could feel Gerald's bitter breath on her chest; the smell rose to her nostrils and almost made her gag. She could feel the heat of his groin; her pubic mound was inches from his erection. The material protecting her was so flimsy; she doubted it would prevent penetration if she slammed down.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed out. As she opened them, a fake smile crossed her lips. "What's your third wish?"

  Gerald pulled his eyes away from her breasts and smiled. "I'm glad you asked. I want to read you a poem as I fuck you."

  Cyndi frowned and leaned back a little, conscious of keeping her groin at a reasonable height. "A poem?"

  "Yes. I write poetry. Some girls, most girls, don’t appreciate the romance of a poem mid-coitus. Would you?"

  "Darling, I've seen all sorts. And you're a paying customer so you can do what you want."

  Gerald shook his head. "That’s just it; I don’t want to just be a paying customer. I want you to get lost in the beauty of the words, follow them, and embrace them. I want your orgasm to multiply because of my amazing technique and my prose. I want you to consider leaving your profession because I'm such a romantic, understand?"

  Cyndi laughed.

  Gerald flinched. "What's so funny?"

  "No offence, darling, but that is a real mood killer. Not for me, I'm a pro, you're paying for the time of your life, but you wonder why woman don’t like this? There's your problem. Poetry has a time and a place, and it isn't during unromantic, animalistic fucking. Wrong time, wrong place. Sure, use it to bring on the fucking, but not during. Just a hint."

  "But it's my third wish."

  "And like I said, I'm a pro," Cyndi smiled. "Where do you want me?"

  Gerald chuckled. "You're fine where you are."

  Cyndi positioned herself carefully. "You want to know what my thing was?"

  "What…oh, your thing. Yes, go on. My wish comes first, though."

  "Well…this might actually help. I wanted to tease you, linger inches above your throbbing cock before I slam down and have you cum inside me, hard. It's a trick I learned some time ago…care to humour me?"

  It'll be the last thing you do. Shame, you're my kind of woman.

  "Sure," Gerald said. "Why not?"

  "Excellent. You're about to have the best fuck of your life."

  Best. It's better than the last, he thought.

  She caressed his chest through his shirt. "Now…play with yourself…slowly."

  Gerald undid his buttons hurriedly, slid his jeans down his legs and started stroking his exposed erection. He groaned, finally being free from the tight denim prison. Cyndi smiled, her eyes flicking to his. "My…that's better than average."

  Still positioned above him, Cyndi balanced in the air, her crotch inches from his chest. "Now, get stroking. When you're ready, start with the poem. Trust me, you're going to love this."

  Gerald grinned, his hand wrapping around his throbbing penis. "I knew you strippers were filthy, but this is a whole other level."

  "Poetry. Filthy. Are we having the same conversation?" Cyndi chuckled. "Know your audience, darling," she uttered, her breath coming in gasps, the exertion on her knees and her stretched, injured buttock sending spasms through her limbs.

  Gerald smiled. "It won't take long…I've been teetering since you whispered in my ear." Wiping his brow, Gerald checked the curtains had shut, and perused the room slowly for a hidden camera in a small hole or a fake fixture. The walls were smooth, shiny glass. No rims, no fixtures. Unless the cameras were behind the glass, he was home free.

  "You look distracted," Cyndi said.

  "Just prolonging my release. I'm making the most of the money."

  "Good idea," she said, sliding a hand into her panties. "Now, poetry. You're not the only one who's close."

  "Okay." Gerald cleared his throat.

  "T'was the night before Christmas back in ninety-three.

  When I realised the demons would shape my destiny.

  For that was the night I killed my pet cat – Max.

  However, it wasn’t a time to sit back and relax.

  Many years later, the darkness owns my soul.

  And my heart is nothing but a big black hole.

  People suffer, people pass, they die at my hands…"

  Cyndi laughed. "Time is limitless, passing like the times of sands," she finished.

  Gerald looked up, his hand sliding from his now-shriveling penis. He tried scooting away, but Cyndi had him pinned to the chair, her legs cramping his wobbly legs. His face paled, the blood washing away.

  Then, it dawned on him.

  "Hello, Gerald," she said.

  Her will power passed the test, a physical ordeal that assessed her in such a grotesque way. Her endurance for the sick sadist across the room was testament to her dedication to the cause.

  Dedication to the mission.

  Dedication to her deceased sister, Suzanne.

  Gerald Hanley was…is a sick man, a person accused of twenty-one gruesome murders.

  That was her motto, the one line that ran through her head for every hour of every day of the past six months, the one fact that inspired her to set out on her one-woman crusade.

  Seeking help, she got nowhere at first, and she didn’t fancy typing the words 'assassin for hire' into Google, so she did it herself, browsing chat rooms and blogs. Eventually she stumbled on Take One With You, a networking website dedicated to wiping out the worst of crime, criminals who escaped the law for whatever reason. The site was a place where suicidal people could converge, and plan to kill a criminal before shuffling off the mortal coil; such was the name of the website.

  Take One With You.

  Cyndi had nothing to live for.

  Cyndi had nothing, full stop.

  Therefore, the plan was set.

  With Gerald, none of the charges ever stuck, such is the crooked way of the judicial system. No evidence equals no crime. The man was ruth
less and cunning in equal measure and, as a result, twenty-one women lost their lives way too young and years too soon. Families were devastated, loved ones traumatized and distraught – and in Cyndi's case, both. It gave her a reason to seek answers for the travesty of her sister's murder.

  The police didn’t give a flying fuck in the aftermath. Cyndi drunk herself into a deep pit of depression, one that claimed her credible office manager career, her house, her car and her husband. She lost everything and moved in with her mother, a sixty-year-old woman with cataracts and Alzheimer's. Half the time, they didn’t even speak. Half the time, her mother didn’t know what was going on. When she called Cyndi by her sister's name, it chipped away a little every time, the memories eventually pushing her to the brink of suicide.

  Which is where the website came in.

  Before that, losing Suzanne was a defining moment, one that not only claimed her sister's life, but her own too. After months in the black hole, and having spent all of her savings, circumstances forced Cyndi to find work, in an attempt to face her torment, to escape the urge to down a bottle of pills.

  But first, in the comfort of a rent-free home, she researched.

  Where did Gerald Hanley hang out? Where did he live? What did he do?

  It wasn’t easy, the man was elusive and cunning and he covered his tracks well. She'd read somewhere that the best serial killers are the ones we don’t read about in the papers, the ones who are never caught in a moment of relapse, error or poor judgment.

  Thus far, Gerald Hanley was one of them.

  Then, she caught a lucky break.

  And it couldn’t have been more cliché.

  Gerald loved strip clubs, as documented in a news report after his acquittal of all murder charges linked to Suzanne King. On this occasion, one strip club provided him an alibi, unware that Gerald had actually murdered Suzanne in that very bar. He'd picked the location for poor security, terrible hygiene and the deafening music, all of which enabled him to strangle Suzanne without interruption, carry her through the back, and drop her dead corpse in a stinking dumpster.

  Cyndi had her way in.

  Within days, Cyndi splurged the last of her credit card on a make-over, applied for a job as a stripper at The Puzo, was accepted – all that office walking paid off in the shape of a strippers body – and lie in wait.

  It took three weeks until Gerald walked in.

  Another two for Cyndi to watch him, observe.

  He had a thing for blondes, but in Puzo's – probably because of the reputation of the place – he never took any home. No women disappeared from the bar.

  Not one.

  Cyndi saw the plan forming, saw the perfect opportunity.

  Fast forward to tonight – the plan in motion.

  Cyndi laughed. "Time is limitless, passing like the times of sands," she finished.

  Gerald managed to shove Cyndi off his lap, his penis slapping his sweaty leg as he backed away, trying to stand up. The back of his knees buckled as they found the rim of the seat behind him. He found himself toppling lop-sided onto the leather as Cyndi hobbled out of reach, her eyes piercing through him.

  "Who are you?" Gerald spat, pulling his trousers up. He heard the rattle of spilled change on the floor as his pockets upended. His eyes didn’t leave Cyndi. "Where did you hear that…my poem?"

  "Does the name Suzanne King mean anything to you?"

  "No. Should it?" Gerald lied. He knew the names of each of his conquests. He had their pictures pinned to his study wall, the secret study in his secret cottage in Yorkshire, one that had eluded the police during his trial. He kissed each of their passports whilst wearing blue lipstick. His little mementos. No one would ever discover them.

  Cyndi shook her head. "You know, you definitely know. You're cunning, ruthless, hell, you were in a major court case on TV because of allegations that pinned her murder on you, so don’t give me that shit."

  "Ah, yes, little Suzanne," Gerald mocked. He buckled his belt around his waist and stood up, mere feet away from Cyndi. He noticed the curtain in his peripheral vision. Escape wouldn’t be easy. "The whore of a waitress, who took the meaning of 'tips' a little too literally." Gerald thrust, hammering home the point.

  Cyndi felt her jaw clench. Her fists balled and the blood in her veins began to burn. "You sang that song to her as you choked the life from her didn’t you?"

  Gerald paused and nodded. "My, my, someone has been doing their homework. For a stripper you’re quite the brainiac. How did you know?"

  "Hannah Rogers." Cyndi watched her foe for any recognition.

  He smiled. "Ah, the one that got away. Isn't she in a mental institution?"

  "She was. She hung herself six weeks ago. I was one of her last visitors. It's a travesty when the medical profession deem the victim of a serial killer insane because they think she made the whole thing up. I assume you gave her a fake name too?"

  "Yes. I was Bruce that day. I do superheroes, you see. Lots of creativity there. I also had a facelift afterwards. For all intents and purposes, I practically vanished. Poor woman. I must make an appointment to stop by and piss her on her grave someday."

  Cyndi continued. "What she said didn’t make sense at first. I mean, 'time is limitless, passing like the times of sands' doesn’t mean shit to anyone. Once I researched you, and realised you recite poetry to your victims…it all made sense. "

  "Suzanne loved my poetry. She was right on the verge or orgasm when I broke her neck and killed her. Shame. You could have lived the same fate."

  "Fuck you," she spat.

  "Mind you, she was a peach, but nothing compared to her…sister? Cousin? Lover?"

  Cyndi said nothing.

  "I have to admire your courage though," Gerald quipped. "You were this close to me the entire time. Your mouth – and other preferably body parts – were inches from my face the whole time. Why didn’t you just kill me?"

  Cyndi gulped. "I had to make sure. I needed to hear the poem. I just had to."

  Gerald laughed. "So you get your rocks off with me before confronting me. That's sick."

  "No, that's the crusade." She gulped, a tear rolling down her cheek. "The mission. I'd do anything to avenge my sister. Anything."

  Gerald took a step forward. "I've met some fucked up chicks in my time, lady, but you take the fucking…"

  Gerald lashed out, his fist aiming at Cyndi's head.

  Something she expected.

  She ducked back and the limb lashed at nothing, arcing through the air. Cyndi brought her arm down on the elbow with such vehemence, she heard bone splinter. The limp flopped in the middle, shattered in two. Gerald howled and collapsed to the chair again, his arm shattered at the elbow. The limb wobbled at a sickening angle.

  "You bitch, you fucking bitch!"

  "This is the end of the line for you."

  Gerald smiled, sputum frothing from his mouth. He tried to hold the broken limb in place and scraped the exposed, bloody bone. He hissed, the immense pain pulsing the veins in his forehead. "You think so? Ha, what makes you so fucking confident?"

  Cyndi smiled. "This."

  From a nook in the wall, she retrieved a handgun. Gerald didn’t know the make or brand, but it was a stocky black item with a long barrel. He felt his insides coil and prolapse a little.

  His shattered limb was suddenly not his concern.

  Not anymore.

  "Take one with you. It’s a great motto. And I intend to do just that."

  "You don’t have the guts," he said. "I bet you don’t know how to –"

  BLAM.

  Gerald's head exploded in a cloud of shattered bone, pulverised muscle and sinew, and dark, rich blood. The mirror behind him cracked, the bullet shattering it, and the glass collapsed onto the faceless corpse, speckles of light and brightness raining down on his blood-soaked shoulders with a cacophony of elegant tinkles.

  She stepped forward and fired six times, four in the chest and two in the brain. Just to make sure. She'd seen the mo
vies. And it left seven shots for her. When she was done, her sister's murderer was a bloody, pulpy mess. Blood dripped and oozed and sluiced everywhere. She felt it touch the tip of her toes. It felt warm. The copper stench became overwhelming.

  Her mission complete, Cyndi looked up. "This is for you, Suzanne."

  She placed the pistol under her chin, smiled, and fired.