Point the Finger – POST-ELECTION RANT

So many people want someone to blame for the sorry state of affairs in the US today.  So many people don’t want to take responsibility for the rise of a man who has ZERO political experience, ZERO military experience, ZERO compassion for human life, ZERO interest in what the population with an IQ above 75 wants, and ZERO business in the White House.

Point the finger at your neighbors, your friends, your family, your spouse, the people who voted red, the people who voted blue, the people who wrote in their votes, and the people who didn’t vote at all.

BUT DON’T POINT THE FINGER AT THE ESTABLISHMENT.  GOD FORBID YOU BLAME THE ACTUAL PEOPLE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MESS IN THIS COUNTRY.

Point the finger at yourself.  It’s YOUR fault that Donald Trump is in office.  Why?  Because you refuse to acknowledge that this country’s party system is flawed.  Because you let yourself be pigeonholed into a tiny little red or blue box.  Because you laughed at the jokes, spread the memes, and didn’t believe it could actually happen.

It’s my fault.  It’s your fault.  It’s everyone’s fault.

We made our beds.  Now we have to lie in them.

Get comfy!

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The Number 33

“Masons and other occultists revere the number ‘33’ above all other numbers.  Many acts of war, murder, and assassination have occurred on or near the 33rd degree parallel,” – Cutting Edge[1]

“When expressed to the fullest, the 33 number energy is focused on its considerable abilities toward the spiritual uplifting of Humankind.  It’s the number of Christ (age of death), meaning it represents the changer and mover of paradigms,” Spiritual Paradigm[2]

Lost, on a desolate road, headed to a hotel she had never been to.  Her head was filled with images of a past lover; her first.  The years between them had been completely disconnected from one another; their lives took on different meanings as they each fulfilled their separate destinies.  She didn’t know if she would see him when she got there, and she didn’t really want to, deep down.  The vacation was something she had planned months before he had even re-entered her life.  Still, she knew she would be in town for his birthday, and possible situations danced in her head like nightmarish monsters haunting her every thought.  She couldn’t escape him now, and she desperately wanted to.

It had been nearly 13 years since they last saw one another.  He had children now, a wife, and he was a completely different person, although he would say that he was still the same boy she loved in high school.  She was not the same girl, though.  She had time to grow up, to realize that the fairy tale of love she believed in when she was young was a lie, and that she was better off believing in herself rather than wearing her heart on her sleeve.  He broke her heart in a way no one had since then, and she feared that if she saw him again, one of two things would happen…

They would fall into each other’s arms, ill-fated and lustful, nostalgic for that lost, fleeting feeling, the hope they both once had of a kind of love that lasts a lifetime.  They would have mad, passionate sex, and she would fall in love again.

Or…

She would snub him coldly, distance herself from any emotion she ever felt for him in her life, and forget that he was her first love.  Treat him as though he was a cockroach invading her personal space, even though she was the one coming to town on his birthday.  Who cared about details like that, though, when you were as striking and independent as she was?  It wasn’t her fault that he never ventured out from under his tiny little rock of a sheltered life.  He was nothing but a past mistake, a pain she got over long ago.  A notch in her bedpost.

She continued down the road, her led foot guiding the way.  No one was on the road but her, and the music blared as she hurled thought after thought of him around in her mind, trashing one romantic notion with a stiff rejection she imagined herself dishing out.  Both of the notions felt amazing, either one would have been pleasing.

But it all seemed too much.

She gazed out the window at the storm looming in the distance.  It would be raining by the time she arrived in Anthem.  Had she taken the right road when leaving Las Vegas, she would have been there by now.  Something led her to Nipton, she pondered.  Something supernatural led her there.

Maybe she really just wanted to go home.  Back to the place she knew years ago.  Maybe she thought it would be the same after nearly 20 years.  It was a pain that could never heal; one she didn’t easily forget.  Maybe she was meant to travel this lonely, two lane highway because she wasn’t meant to reach her intended destination.

The thoughts swirled in her mind like cream in coffee, oil in water, blood in a bathtub.  She imagined many, horrific things could happen between now and when the monsoon hit.  She could end her troubles with just a swift yank of the steering wheel in the opposite direction.  The rental car hurdling out of control, spinning, tossing her about inside, and finally, delivering an epic crash landing that could result in a massive explosion there in the middle of the desert between California and Arizona.

What would the papers say about that?

The sadness returned, as it always did, no matter how hard she tried to avoid it.  It was like an old, familiar robe that blanketed her in a sick, comforting sort of way.  When all the world seemed to mish mash and fall apart, the sadness was always consistent.

Looking up, she saw something in the sky that made her completely forget the entire train of thought that led her to this moment.

Speeding up, she took out her iPhone and snapped a picture of it, in awe of what she thought she could see.

A few hours later, she arrived at that hotel in Anthem.  Scrolling through her iPhone, she stared at the photo that made her forget.

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[1] Cutting Edge, 2016, retrieved from:  http://www.cuttingedge.org/news/n1766.cfm

[2] Spiritual Paradigm, 2016, retrieved from:  http://blog.spiritualparadigm.org/numerology/meaning-number-33/

The Last Day of School

His eyes reddened and puffy from crying, he slowly raised his head from his pillow to find his bedroom door ajar.  The sounds of his mother cooking breakfast came from the kitchen; the bacon popping in the frying pan, the clink of the toaster indicating toast was ready, coffee percolating.  He glanced at the clock.  It read 6:56 AM.

Getting out of bed and wiping his face, he looked down at his feet, then across the room to his closet.  The door was still closed, so he knew she had only opened his bedroom door to check on him, and hadn’t bothered looking in the closet.  His secret was safe.  She never really cared to know exactly what was going on with him.  Her main interest was whatever man she was trying to impress.  Today was no different.  He knew that as soon as he walked in the kitchen, she would pretend like she thought he wasn’t going to come down to breakfast, and that is why her boyfriend was eating all the food he smelled as he woke up, and none was left for him.  She would begrudgingly pour him some cereal, and spout off something about his homework not being done, or the yard being unkempt, or the trash needed to be taken out.

“Well look who decided to come join us,” Stephanie said sarcastically, as she eyed her son staggering into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from his eyes.  Her boyfriend was eating buttered toast and bacon, sipping on some hot coffee.  He didn’t bat an eye as Joey entered the kitchen, and just kept scrolling through his iPhone as though nothing else existed.

Joey looked at his mother as she stubbed out her cigarette and reached for a bowl in the cupboard.  He sat down at the table across from Todd, the new man in his mother’s life, and waited for his Frosted Flakes.

“Did you do your homework?”

“No, Mom,” Joey said, putting his face in his hands.  “Today is the last day of school.  We don’t have homework.”

She plopped the bowl of cereal down in front of Joey and poured the milk on top of it.  “Don’t sass me, boy,” she warned.  Walking back toward the counter to retrieve another cigarette, she forgot to give Joey a spoon to eat his cereal.

Joey pushed the bowl away.  “I’m not, I just don’t have any homework, that’s all.”

Todd glanced up at Joey.  “You better eat your breakfast, kid,” he said, attempting to exert authority over the boy.

Joey looked up at Todd and immediately back down at his hands.  He had no wish to fight with him this early in the morning.  “I’m going to go take out the trash.”  He pushed the chair out loudly, walked toward the living room picking up the bag of trash on the way, and slammed the front door as he walked outside to dump the bag into the trash dumpster and take it out to the curb.

As Joey walked back toward the front of the house, he paused, taking a moment to look at the place he had spent the last 10 years of his life in.  This was his home, but it hardly seemed like one.  It was nothing like his friend Charlie’s house.  Charlie’s mom was so nice, and always made them cinnamon rolls, or cookies.  She hugged Charlie and helped him with his homework.  Charlie’s dad always brought home new toys whenever he came home from work to give to Charlie.  Joey wondered why he didn’t have Charlie’s life, and why his own family seemed to hate him so much.

∞                                                                            ∞                                                                            ∞

The bell rang for lunch and all the kids made a mad dash for the classroom door, to be the first in line at the cafeteria, where they were serving pizza for the last day of school celebration.  Joey and Charlie made it to about the middle of the line, where they both joked that there probably wouldn’t be any more pizza left by the time they got there, and they would be stuck with bread and ketchup or something equally as disgusting.

“Is your mom still going to take you out of school early today?” Joey asked Charlie, and Charlie nodded, smiling.  “Lucky,” Joey replied, grateful that his only friend wouldn’t be around for the celebration.  He didn’t want that to be the last thing Charlie remembered about him.

“She’s coming after lunch,” Charlie said.  “She told me she would let me have pizza, then she is going to take me and my brother to the park.”

Joey smiled.  “I wish my mom would do stuff like that.”

∞                                                                            ∞                                                                            ∞

Looking down at his hands, he started shaking uncontrollably.  He looked up again at the mess and it seemed like he was in another world.  Like this was all just a scene from a movie.  An incredibly terrifying, bloody, horror movie.  This couldn’t be real.  Even for as long as he had imagined it, he never believed it would look like this when it actually happened.

Bobby was lying in a pool of blood, his hands around his neck where he had been shot.  His eyes were still open, with an expression of disbelief.  Sarah’s pretty white dress was stained red from her own gunshot wounds, but her face was peaceful; eyes closed, a tiny smile on her face.  Carlos had his head between his legs, his arms down to his sides, and it looked like he just fell asleep after eating lunch, with some ketchup dribbling down his shirt.

The sirens wailed loudly, and Joey knew they were coming closer.  He scanned the room and saw Mr. Jackson sobbing, clutching his thigh where a bullet had grazed him.  Mrs. Thompson was gurgling and clutching her throat, blood spurting from her mouth.  The janitor stood motionless staring at Joey, his eyes probing his little face, searching for an answer to the question nobody dared ask him.

Why?

13 Ways Writers are Mistaken for Serial Killers — Kristen Lamb’s Blog

I love being a writer. It’s a world like no other and it’s interesting how non-writers are simultaneously fascinated and terrified of us. While on the surface, people seem to think that what we do is easy, deep down? There is a part that knows they’re wrong. That being a writer, a good writer, is […]

via 13 Ways Writers are Mistaken for Serial Killers — Kristen Lamb’s Blog

The Route 86 Murders

 

CHAPTER ONE:  The First Victim

It just wasn’t the same for him anymore.  She let herself go in the months following the birth of their daughter, Laura, and she didn’t seem to have any desire to please him like she used to.  That was the main reason he chose her; aside from her youth, she was overly submissive.  It was a good arrangement.  However, he couldn’t deal with her apparent lack of interest in the relationship anymore.  It had just lost its spark.

She was starting to grow wise to his antics, and he knew it would soon be time to go through with his plan.  This was something he had been thinking about doing for years, even before he met Sarai.  She just happened to come along at the right time, when he needed someone to support him.  He had been grooming her to be his first victim, and now that she had his child, he was ready to kill her.  She was useless to him.  The sex was no longer something he looked forward to, she didn’t shower most days, her leg hair was longer than his, and she had put on over 50 pounds since Laura was born.  Her breasts, which used to be perky and pink, were droopy and brown.  Flat sacks of deflated air, he used to say to himself whenever he saw Sarai without a bra.  She didn’t think she needed to impress him anymore.  Maybe that was his fault for feeding her bullshit and blowing smoke up her ass for so long, but he only did it for her money.  She was a clothing store chain heiress and was able to afford a moderately lavish lifestyle.  Since she was impossible to deal with, and not very pretty, she had to “buy” her friends, including him.

He waited for a day when he knew she would be easy to dispose of.  She was very popular, oddly, but it was most likely because she had money.  Today, she was going to come home from work early, because he promised her that he would take her out to a movie that she wanted to see.  It was always about her; that was the only way to keep her happy, so he had to play the doting husband.  She was convinced that he had no backbone, so there was really no way he could fail.  A few months earlier, he persuaded her to take out a large life insurance policy on herself, and make him the beneficiary.  After Laura was born, this did not change, and he remained the sole beneficiary.  This was because he was able to convince her that Laura was too young to know what to do with that amount of money, and of course, Sarai agreed, so they purchased an additional policy for Laura, in which he was the trustee until she was old enough to make decisions on her own behalf, legally, which in Phoenix, AZ, was 18-years-old.  He was also able to secure a small allowance from her in the years they had been together, which he kept in a secret bank account that Sarai did not even know about.

Once Sarai arrived home, he got her upstairs and drew her a hot bath.  While she soaked, he prepared himself mentally for her murder.  Even as many times as he had walked himself through it in his mind, it was not the same now that the opportunity was staring him in the face.  There she was, the ugly cow, in the tub, soaking, ready to die.  All he had to do was kill her and put his plan into action.

He opened the bathroom door and saw Sarai lying there, gargantuan gut poking above the water in the tub, saggy tits flopped to each side of her torso under the water, her eyes closed and mouth half open.  He could have just plugged in a hair dryer and dropped it into the tub, making it easy on himself.  It would have probably been funny to watch, too, but it would have been too difficult to make it look like she actually killed herself.  She had too many reasons to live.  Plus, he thought it would be way too much fun to actually do what he had been thinking about for so long.  Just watching her eyes and knowing he had all the control over that fat whore’s life.  Seeing her fear and watching the blood drain out of her face as she died was what he craved.  He hated her; even though he knew she was one of the only people who loved him, he still hated her, maybe even for that.  He knew he was unlovable at his core, and he was a horrible person who was two-faced and disloyal.  He was a narcissist; a total sociopathic serial killer in the making, and Sarai was his first victim.

Walking up behind her, he knelt at her head and started to massage her shoulders, waking her up from her cat nap.  She blinked and smiled up at him, as his grip tightened on her shoulders.  She turned around and faced the opposite direction, as he continued to massage her neck and shoulders.  He reached down to his right side for the electric saw, which was fully charged, and he put his left hand over her eyes, whispering in her ear that he had a surprise for her.  She giggled and he pressed her head against his chest, his hand over her eyes.  Then, slowly putting the electric saw up to her throat, he turned it on and blood immediately began spurting all over the room as Sarai started blinking furiously underneath his hand covering her eyes.  Gargled, muffled screams as he pressed the saw quickly through her throat and back to her spine, where he stopped, turning off the saw.

He wanted to watch her dying.

He picked up her nearly severed head; cupping her chin and looking deeply into her horrified eyes.  They blinked.  Her mouth, agape and drooling, was almost twitching.  He kissed it, then noticed all life left her eyes, and there was no more spark.  He finished the job, using the saw to cut all the way through the bone and remove her head completely.  It would end up in a trash can about 10 miles away, and the rest of her body would eventually be found in an alley within a one mile radius of her head.

She bled for me too

But not like she bled for you

She is now your slave

He wrote the haiku with his non-dominant hand, placing it in her open mouth for police to find when her severed head was located.  Famished, he changed his bloodied clothes, putting them in a garbage bag to dispose of later, and went to his local Taco Bell for a Mexican Pizza.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO:  Just Because

The fuel light came on in his 1985 Pontiac Grand Prix as he approached the Flying J truck stop in Kingman, AZ.  Pulling over, he slowed to avoid a truck that seemed to be speeding in to the lot and unaware of his large, white car slowly pulling in.  He looked up to see the truck driver was cursing and yelling on the phone.

He parked his car and walked into the convenience store to pay for his gas, using cash so he wouldn’t be tracked.  The band aids on his fingertips were starting to become saturated with his blood, he noticed as he walked back to the car to fill up.  Unlocking the trunk, he reached in for a first aid kit, and replaced the band aids, careful to put his old ones in a Ziploc baggie he could burn later.  As he began filling up his car, the angry truck driver hopped out of his truck at the first truck fuel dock in the lot.  It was late, so they the only two customers around.  Watching the truck driver, he heard him yelling about something on the phone as he picked up the pump to fuel his truck.  A lot lizard approached him, asking if he wanted a blow job for $5 because she wanted a cheeseburger.  He pointed to the truck driver a few feet away and said, “I’m sure he can help you out, ma’am,” smiling.

He watched as the lot lizard talked briefly with the angry truck driver, then noticed them both get into the cab of the truck, the gas nozzle continuing to fuel up the 18-wheeler.  A few seconds later, his own car was full, so he got into his car, and just pretended to go through his glove box while he watched the progression of events.  After about five minutes, the lot lizard got out and walked inside the convenience store, he assumed for her cheeseburger.  He would probably need something to get that taste out of his mouth too, he thought to himself.

The truck driver started to pull out, so he decided to follow him, just because he had nothing better to do.

Heading north on US 93 toward Laughlin, the truck exited at Arizona 68 west, and he followed him to a convenience store in Bullhead City.  It was quite late, and he was assuming the truck driver was tired, because he was getting tired himself.  Looking at the clock, he noticed it was 1:11 AM, and he watched the truck driver pull around to the back of the convenience store.  It looked like the store was open, but since the truck driver had pulled around to the back, he assumed that he was a vendor and was making a delivery, which meant he had probably stopped to sleep.  Turning his lights off, he drove around to see if the truck driver was still there and sure enough, he had his parking lights on and appeared to be getting comfortable inside the cab.

Pulling back around to the front of the convenience store, he put on a ball cap and hoodie, then walked inside to get a coffee and use the bathroom.  After he got back to his car and drove toward the back of the store, he waited for his coffee to cool and decided to think of a neat haiku to write following the truck driver’s grisly murder.  He had his electric saw, but needed to charge the battery, so in lieu of this, he had brought with him a Civil War era, bone handled knife, inscribed with an eagle.    It was a bit rusty, but that made it more fun.  Turning on the radio, he scanned through the stations, keeping the volume low, but nothing came in clearly, so he turned on his CD disc man and played “Make Me Lose Control,” by Eric Carmen.

After listening to that same song over and over for an hour and drinking his coffee, he decided it was time.  He didn’t plan this, it was just a sport kill; something he thought of at the spur of the moment.  The truck driver appeared rude and obnoxious, and while following, he noticed him almost hit several cars on the road, endangering the lives of innocent people.

To be honest, he was simply validating his blood lust, and this made him laugh at his own innate ability to justify his actions.  It wasn’t even about those people the truck driver cut off, it was about his own freedom to kill.  To live his dreams.  The truck driver was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After he had gathered enough nerve from his coffee and Eric Carmen, he decided to approach the truck with an excuse that he was stranded and was willing to offer him some money in exchange for a ride to Los Angeles.  Since the truck driver had been so willing to let the lot lizard suck his cock in exchange for a five-dollar cheeseburger, he figured he at least had a shot at a conversation with him, and that was all he needed.

Walking up to the truck, he knocked on the window three times and said, “help,” loudly, as to alert the truck driver and make him aware that he was not a threat, or at least to make him think he was not a threat, anyway.  Some truck drivers carry guns.  The truck driver rolled down the window looking tired, but somewhat curious and submissive.  The killer smiled and said he was stranded, looking for a ride to Los Angeles, that his car would not start and he had money to pay for a ride.  How much did the truck driver need?

The truck driver looked annoyed and said he was fucking sleeping, but the killer persisted, apologetic, and asked if he could at least help him with getting his car started.  Did he have some jumper cables?  Something, anything, he was desperate and stuck in a different state trying to get home to his wife and two young daughters.

The truck driver must have had a soft spot, or maybe he was a father himself, because his expression softened and he agreed to help.  Rolling the window up, the truck driver opened the door at which point, the killer sliced his Achilles tendon and jumped up on top of him, holding his knife to his throat.

The truck driver was shocked and in pain, but he remained quiet as the killer threatened to slice his throat if he said anything or called for help.  He ordered the truck driver to close the door.  As the truck driver closed the door, the killer took a gun out of his back pocket and pointed it at the truck drivers head, calmly seating himself in the passenger side.  The killer ordered the truck driver to put both his hands on the steering wheel and asked him if he was armed, to which the truck driver replied negatively.

 

“What do you want?  I have money, I can give you whatever you want,” the truck driver bargained.

“I have enough money,” the killer replied.

“Are you some kind of psycho?”  The truck driver looked like he was going to cry, but desperately tried to maintain his machismo, though his voice was getting a little high-pitched.

The killer just smiled and said, “I was bored and you almost cut me off at the Flying J in Kingman, so I decided to follow you.  You almost hit several people on the freeway, which also made me feel like you were a good second victim.”

The truck driver looked at the killer, wide-eyed.  “Second victim?”

“Yes, my first one was my wife.  She was just too overweight and disgusting for me, so I cut her head off.”

The truck driver started to cry.  “Please, I have a family, I will give you whatever you want.”  He hung his head, sobbing.

“Whatever I want?”

The truck driver sobbed, “Yes, whatever you want.”

The killer smiled and told the truck driver to keep his hands on the wheel and close his eyes.

“Why do I have to close my eyes?”

“Don’t ask questions, just do it.”

The truck driver closed his eyes and the killer sliced his throat.  The truck driver grabbed his throat instinctively as the blood began spilling all over his hands.  He made horrible gargling sounds as though he was trying to speak, or beg for his life, which would have been a moot point now anyway.

Opening the passenger door, the killer looked out to make sure there were no witnesses.  He stepped out of the truck and closed the passenger door slightly so that he could get back in and cut the truck driver’s head off after he bled out.  He had no desire to watch this unknown man die, he had no affinity with him.

He whistled “Make Me Lose Control,” by Eric Carmen, as he walked back to his Pontiac to retrieve a spare set of clothes, as his were covered in the truck driver’s blood at this point.  Retrieving a back pack from the trunk of his car, he found a pair of blue jeans and a white polo shirt as well as some clean boxer shorts.  He brought the backpack with him and placed it next to one of the tires on the truck to change into after beheading the truck driver with a rusty blade.  It was going to take a while, he was sure, but there were at least two hours before sunrise.

After taking the truck driver’s head, he drop kicked it into a nearby field and just left the bloody stump of a body sitting in the truck, the truck driver’s hands placed carefully at the ten and two positions on the steering wheel.

Had he been a better truck driver, he might not have died that night.

 

He changed right there in the open, stopping for a moment to urinate on the truck tires.  He had to stop himself from laughing maniacally as he wrote his name in pee all over the tires.

He decided against another haiku since it was so late.  He was Vegas bound and the sun was getting ready to rise.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE:  The Ambitious Escort

His car was starting to overheat as he neared Las Vegas, so he decided it would be time to ditch it soon.  Not before he had a little fun, though.  Just outside of Henderson, he stopped to burn his blood-saturated clothes and band aids, then he buried the ashes in a shallow hole.  Dumping radiator fluid into the old beat up car, he thought about the truck driver and wondered if it would have been smarter to take his semi-truck, but decided it would be easier to catch him that way.  Plus, he had never driven a semi-truck before.

Harrah’s casino had always been his favorite, so he decided he would get a room there and then set the car on fire after finding another car.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to get the car, but figured there would be plenty of easy targets on the strip, especially at night.  Flashy cars, hookers, gambling…it was the perfect place to find his next victim.  His blood lust was growing stronger by the minute.  He hadn’t even slept since he killed the truck driver, and he was ready to go again.  This time, though, he was going to switch it up a bit.

Killing his wife was such a bittersweet moment for him, and he wanted to relive it.  Since that was impossible, though, the next best thing would be a hooker.  She had to be a little thinner, and at least shave her legs.  A hooker without fake tits would be great too, but they had to be small, so they wouldn’t hang to the sides when she laid down.  He hated that.

He continued the search for a flat-chested hooker at Harrah’s.

Sitting at a slot machine, alone in a sparkly blue dress, he found her.  She looked depressed, probably having a slow night, he thought.  Or maybe she was high.  Whatever.  He sat next to her and started playing.  He noticed she had a very dark tan and fake blonde hair.  Trying a little too hard to fit in with the silicone population, he thought, but what did he know?  Maybe she had just broken up with her boyfriend and was chasing her blues away by playing some slots.

He said hello with a big smile, and she looked surprised that someone was talking to her.  Not looking directly at him, she responded with a small, hello.  He asked her name, and she mumbled something inaudible.  He decided to go about this a different way.

He laid his wallet on the table next to the slot machine and watched her follow his hand as he reached back into his pocket, just to see what she would do.  His wallet obviously interested her, so he reached back to retrieve it and she quickly averted her eyes.  All of a sudden she became talkative, asking him his name and what he did for a living.  Pulling out a 20 dollar bill and putting it into the slot machine, he said, “I’m a gambler.  What do you do, cutie?”

She talked about something while he played the slot machine, winning three times in a row.  She got closer, touchy-feely even.  All this over $20 and his measly winnings, which didn’t even amount to $100.  A cheap hooker, he thought, but he pulled out another $20 anyway and handed it to her, asking her if she wanted to play also.  She smiled and said yes.

She kept losing, so he kept forking over $20s.  She seemed to really warm up to him and asked him if he wanted to hang out with her.  He agreed, and they went walking the strip.  While they walked, she told him her life story, how she was sexually abused as a child and the man she thought was her father was not really, in fact, her biological father.  Blah blah blah.  He pretended to listen, smiling and laughing where appropriate.  She ate it up like a starved child in Ethiopia.

As the day turned into night, they ended up having dinner at Guy Savoy’s at Caesar’s Palace.  She had the Red Mullet Fillet, with Spinach and Mushroom Gratin.  He had the American Prime Beef Tenderloin, Braised Paleron and Baby Heirloom Carrot.  During their meal she told him stories about her life, and he acted like he cared.  It was just so easy he couldn’t even believe it was happening.

After dinner, she asked him if he needed a ride, and he looked at her like she was an angel sent from heaven to save him.  Actually, yes, he did need a ride, and would she mind taking him back to Harrah’s?  That was where he was staying.  She agreed, almost too eagerly.

On the way back to the hotel, as they sat in traffic, she asked him if he wanted company for the night.  He smiled.

“How much would something like that cost?”

“$300.”

“Sounds doable.”

Before she pulled into the parking lot at Harrah’s, he told her not to park valet because he knew the people there and did not approve of how they parked cars.  He told her that he used to work as a valet and they would drive the cars all over town sometimes.  Once, he lied, he overheard a co-worker talking about how they sold drugs out of customers’ cars instead of parking them, and would just fill up the tank and roll back the odometer so the customer was none the wiser.  She totally believed him, and if she didn’t, she acted like she did.

She parked the car on the top story, as he instructed.

“Turn off the car,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his .22.

She did as she was told and said, “Right here?”

He smiled widely and pointed the gun at her head.  “Yes.”

She reached for the car door and he grabbed her wrist hard, then she hit him in the face so he grabbed her hair before she could escape through the driver’s side.

“Bitch you better shut the fuck up and do what I say or you are going to die horribly, and you don’t want that, do you?”

She cried, “Please don’t do this!”

“I’ve killed two people in less than 48 hours and I cut both of their heads off.”

She sobbed, “Please!”

“Do you want to keep your head?”

She nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks, her mascara running.

“Now drive.”

He had her drive all over the parking garage, slowly, looking for his car.  When he found it, he told her to find an empty parking spot and pull in.  She did as he said.

“Please don’t kill me, I’ll do anything you want,” she looked at his crotch.  “I’ll let you put it in my ass.”

He laughed loudly.  “Oh you will, will you?”

She cried and cried, sounding like a dying hyena.

“Shut the fuck up!”  He ordered, slapping her hard in the mouth, knocking her two front teeth out.  She spit them in her hand and screamed.

“Why are you doing this?”

“What, bitch?  I can’t understand you.  What the fuck did you say?”

She cried and cried, begging him to let her go.

“No, you’re going to suck my dick now and if you even try any biting shit, I will scalp you, do you understand?”

She nodded, her hand covering her bloodied mouth.

He unzipped his pants, his eyes on her and his .22 pointed at her head.  Using the same hand he held the gun in, he forced her head down toward his fully erect penis, and she put it in her mouth.  He pushed her head down hard so he felt it going down her throat.  He took hold of her hair with his free hand and gripped it as he pushed her up and down on his stiff cock, nearing his climax.

“Bitch, I said suck it,” he ordered.  “Suck my fucking dick.”

She was getting blood all over his clean clothes, so he knew he would have to change them again, but at least it provided extra lubrication.  He came down her throat, then pulled her head back, ordering her to wipe her mouth because they were going for a ride.  “If you say one word to anyone in this fucking parking lot, or if you scream once, I will cut your fucking head off and kill anyone who sees us, you got that, whore?”

She nodded, still bloody and crying.

“Give me your car keys.”

She handed them over, he put them in his pocket and they walked, the .22 pointed at her back, toward his old beat up Pontiac.  Using his spare set of car keys, he opened the trunk of the Pontiac and told her to get inside it.  With electrical tape, he covered her mouth, then also taped up her wrists.  For her feet, he used her own sandal straps, tying them together and taping them so she could not kick.  Then, putting her on her stomach, he hog-tied her with jumper cables.

Getting into the driver’s side of the Pontiac, he drove out of Harrah’s and headed toward the patch of desert by the McCarran International Airport.  Turning off his car lights, he parked across from Ultimate Staffing.  Going to the trunk of the car, he paused to listen and discern if there was anyone watching him.  It was quite dark, so he couldn’t see anyone.  All he heard were noises coming from the Strip, which was far enough away that no one could see him.  Nobody cares what happens in an abandoned patch of desert in Vegas anyway.  Not when the strip is less than a mile away.

Opening the trunk, he looked down and saw that she had passed out cold.  He checked for her pulse, and saw that she had one, so he assumed that she had just passed out from fright.  He almost felt sorry for her, but remembered how overly eager she had been to take his money.  She didn’t even know him and hardly wanted to until he pulled out his wallet.

He slapped her face and woke her up.

“Bitch, it’s time to die.”

She looked at him pathetically, crying again, fearful and begging for her life.  Her muffled cries went unnoticed until he took the electrical tape off of her mouth.  She begged and begged.  He positioned her so that she was on her knees, upright in the trunk of his car.  He ordered her to open her mouth.

“Please, I don’t want to die.”

“No one does.  Open your mouth or I will cut your head off.”

She cried, but did as she was told.  He put the barrel of the .22 in her mouth and she closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes or I will cut your head off.”

She opened her eyes and he stared into them for a second, noticing how scared and helpless she was.  Just an hour ago she was chit-chatting up a storm about herself and her life and her goals.  Now, she looked like a washed up crack head begging for her next rock.

There was nothing there.  That look his wife gave him was not there.  He stared for a few minutes longer, waiting for that plea, but all he saw was darkness.

One shot and it was all over for her.  He pulled the trigger and watched the back of her head explode.

Laying her dead body in the trunk of the Pontiac, he closed the trunk and opened the gas tank.  He knew the car would eventually blow up, attracting a lot of attention, but he was a fast runner.  He gathered his backpack and belongings out of the car, then syphoned about a half a gallon of gas from the car.  Pouring the gasoline all over the inside and outside of the car then creating a trail leading away from it, where he could light the fire from a safe distance.

He struck a match, dropped it, and took off.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR:  Football Head

Monday morning started with a horrific phone call from a panicked Chevron gas station attendant.  Her thick accent was difficult to understand, but from what the 911 dispatcher could hear, a body was found in a diesel truck parked around the back of the convenience store in Bullhead City.  Quickly noting what he could make out, he dispatched the Mohave County criminal investigations unit to the Chevron gas station, just down the road from the police station, located close to the Smart & Final grocery store.  The woman was obviously upset and crying, but was able to provide graphic details about the crime scene, stating that the truck driver did not have a head from what she could see.

As the patrol car pulled up to the scene, the woman was running toward them flailing her arms.  The driver, a deputy sheriff, opened the door and told her to calm down, they were there to help.  He got out of his patrol car, while his partner remained inside.  She led him to where the diesel truck was parked, at the back of the convenience store, and he turned back motioning for his partner to follow him.  The trio walked toward the truck, asking the woman if she had seen anyone suspicious, or if she might have an idea of what happened.  She was obviously shaken, but was able to respond, saying that she did not see anything or anyone out of the ordinary, aside from the truck and its headless driver.  She came in to work that morning, and saw the truck parked in the back, knowing they were expecting a delivery.  She assumed that the truck driver was getting ready to come in to make his scheduled delivery as he always had before, but when he did not show up on time, she decided to go out and see if he needed any help.  She noticed the truck had not moved from the first time she saw it, so she approached the driver’s side door and that is when she saw the body.

The driving deputy asked his partner to remain behind to talk to the woman while he approached the diesel, his hand on his gun.  He walked up to the driver’s side and immediately caught a whiff of stale death.  Holding his free hand over his nose, he just looked up and was able to clearly see the headless truck driver, with his hands on the steering wheel, like he was planning to continue driving.

“Dear God, that stinks!” He shouted.

He ran back to his patrol car, stopping to vomit in a trash can outside.  His partner, who had been talking with the horrified gas station attendant, stopped questioning her and ran to his partner’s aid.  After a few minutes, both officers approached the truck and the partner saw the same scene, but was able to remain composed, though he did turn pale at the sight.

The female gas station attendant continued crying, saying that she had seen the truck driver just last Monday, when he came to make his daily delivery of snacks.  He worked for a vendor and had been making deliveries to them for over five years.  She became friends with him and knew about his personal life, stating he had a wife and two children, but she did not know their names.

“He was such a nice man,” she sobbed.  “He bought my sons ice cream every time he came in here, and they loved him.  Who would do such a thing?”

The police officer who had been riding passenger in the patrol car continued questioning the woman while the driving officer remained in the patrol car to call for more officers.  After about 45 minutes, back up units arrived, including Sheriff’s detectives, a crime scene photographer, and the Police Captain.   The Police Captain went inside the convenience store to continue questioning the woman as the area was taped off, and became an official crime scene.

Detectives searched the nearby field for anything they might find which would help them determine more about what happened.  They ended up finding his head about 90 yards away, with a piece of dog feces in the mouth, flies breeding in his nose and eye sockets.  It looked like it had been chewed up by dogs, because the eyes were missing as well as the top part of the nose.

The Captain asked the woman about the night before and if there was a way to contact the clerk who worked the graveyard shift.  She provided him with a name and phone number to reach him, but told them he was not going to be in town that week since he had taken his scheduled vacation.  She told the Captain she did not know where he was going, but that he would return to work the following Monday night as scheduled.  She copied the overnight clerk’s schedule and gave it to the Captain.  The Captain asked if there was video surveillance in the convenience store, and if he could have access to it.  She replied that they stored all their surveillance videos remotely, so that no one could tamper with them.  It was a new company policy, she said, and she gave him the number to their corporate office so that he would be able to gain access to the videos.  He asked if they also had video surveillance which included the back of the store, and she replied positively.

“Do you think whoever did this will be on camera?”  She asked hopefully.

“Let’s hope so,” the Captain replied.

Relieving the woman from questioning, he contacted the corporate office to obtain their recordings of what happened the previous evening.  The woman called her boss to leave for the day, explaining what was going on.

After a few hours of searching, the murder weapon was recovered, which was dusted for prints.  The officers found no prints on it, and had no viable leads to who had committed the crime while they waited for the Chevron corporate office to provide them with the surveillance videos.

 

∞     ∞     ∞

 

Her eyes were watery, but she was calm.  After hearing the news about her husband’s decapitation, she fainted in the Captain’s arms.  When she was revived, however, she almost appeared relieved.  His news brought her peace, and though she was visibly muddled, he knew there was something about this victim that almost beckoned his ultimate demise.

“Ken was a good man when we were first married,” she told the Captain, sipping her coffee and wiping the tears from her eyes.  “He used to be very romantic and often would surprise me at work with flowers or something nice.”  She choked back tears, and as she moved her hand toward her coffee cup, the Captain noticed a bruise inside her arm.

“Ma’am, how did you get that bruise?” he asked her.

She almost dropped her mug on the coffee table and her face lost all its color.  “I…don’t remember really,” she stuttered, avoiding the Captain’s knowing gaze.  Shaking her head, she finally decided to be honest with him.  “It was him,” she admitted.  “He became abusive after I had the boys, and it just kept getting worse.”

The Captain shook his head.  “Did you ever report it?”

“I thought about it,” she admitted, “but I never did because he threatened to take away my boys.”  She wiped up her spilled coffee and poured another cup.  “I thought he would do more than that, though, so I just kept quiet about it.”  She turned her left hand upward, with her palm facing the ceiling, and took the Captain’s own hand into hers with her right one.  Then, she rubbed his fingertips against her left pinky finger, where he felt a deep scar.

“What is that from?”

“He almost severed my finger when we got into a fight once,” she admitted.  “He held a knife to me and I tried to get it away from him.  He blamed that on me, though, and I thought if I said anything to anyone, it would end up being my fault.  I never even went to the hospital for it.”

The Captain seemed to believe her, so she continued.  “When I met him, I was very young, and he was my first love.  He used to be such a kind person, and I was very much infatuated with him.  After about 8 years, though, the abuse started.  I had our two boys, and he started to stay out all night, coming home at all hours.  Sometimes, I would hear him come in, and other times, he would wake me up to satisfy his own needs, if you know what I mean.”

The Captain nodded, not writing down anything she said, but simply listening to her.

She continued, “One night, he raped me so many times, I had to visit the hospital.  When they asked me what happened, I had to tell them it was just rough sex gone wrong, but they knew I was lying.”  Tears rolled down her tired face, and the Captain wanted to put his arm around her to comfort her, but kept his distance to remain professional.

“Did he have any enemies? “He asked.

“No, he was a friendly man, and many people liked him.  He had been driving his truck for about 6 years, and that actually kept us from fighting as much as we used to, but the fights still went on when he was home.”

“Why did you fight?”

She sipped her coffee.  “Many reasons.  Mostly it was because he was unhappy about what happened to him during the day, and I was either not doing enough to make him happy, or one of the boys angered him, so he took it out on me.”

The Captain looked hard at her, not knowing whether or not she would be capable of doing this to her husband.  “Did you ever want to see your husband hurt, ma’am?”  He pulled out a small notebook, for shock value mostly, to see how she would react.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.  For a minute, she could not speak at all, she just cried and the Captain was compelled to put his arm on her back and just comfort her for a minute as she did so.  When she composed herself, she looked in his eyes and said, “Yes, I did want to see him hurt, I will be honest with you.”  She wiped her tears away and blew her nose.  “But if you are asking me if I would murder my own husband, Officer, the answer is no.  I may have fantasized about it, and may have done so many times, but there is nothing in this world that could make me take away the father of my sons.”

The Captain looked hard at her, not sure if she was capable of hiring someone or not, but felt that she was being honest.  “I will need to see you again at the station, but for now, I will give you some time to grieve and tell your sons what happened.  Just do me this favor, and do not leave the county without letting me know first.”

“Am I a suspect, Officer?”

“We just want to question you a bit more, but I will say that we are not ruling anyone out at this point,” he told her, still trying to remain objective in the presence of a recently widowed, battered woman.

“There was one person he used to have drinks with all the time who might be able to help you, Officer,” she said.  “I can’t remember his name off the top of my head, but I do know that he lived in Avondale, and this guy used to hang out at Wendy Jacks Hideaway every Friday night.  Sometimes, Ken would go down there and wouldn’t come home for weeks.  The guy always wore a flannel shirt and ripped up Levi’s.  He has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a tattoo of the name “Janet” on his right arm, the inside of it.”

The Captain wrote down the description.  “You don’t know his name?”

She shook her head.  “No, he never included me in those sort of things.  The guy came over a couple of times and worked on the car with Ken, but aside from that, I didn’t know anything about him other than what he looked like.  He might have told me his name once, and if I remember it, I’ll call you.”

The Captain nodded his head.  “Thank you, ma’am.”  He walked out of the home and back to his police cruiser.

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE:  Sarai

The first time he saw her, she was walking her dog and stopped to drink from a water bottle she pulled out of her purse.  She seemed like an easy target, and he decided to follow her.  She was wearing a pair of cut off shorts with a black tank top, and seemed to be slightly plump, but still attractive enough to grab his attention.

Following her while she walked her dog, he pretended to be talking on the phone in case she noticed him, that way she wouldn’t know what he was really doing.  He finally worked up the courage to sit down next to her at a park bench, still pretending like he was talking to someone.  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and he could tell she found him attractive also.  He acted like the call dropped and put his phone in his pocket, smiling at her quickly and saying hello.  She acknowledged him with a grin.  He noticed she had a strange face, and though she had pretty eyes, she was not particularly attractive aside from that.

“That’s a beautiful dog,” he said, reaching down to pet the dachshund, who was wagging happily.

“Thank you,” she smiled.  “His name is Oscar.”

He laughed.  “Oscar, how fitting.”

She laughed and batted her eyelashes at him.

“What’s your name?”  He asked, smiling from ear to ear.

Suddenly, her face changed.  Bloated, mouth gaping open, blood dripping from the corners of her mouth.  “Sarai,” she whispered.

He woke up in a cold sweat in the cheap hotel room.  Forgetting where he was for a moment, he threw up on the carpet next to him.  Jumping out of bed, he rushed into the bathroom, where he sat in the tub and just ran the water over his body.  He shook violently, weeping and sickened by the vision of his dead wife.

He thought he actually missed her.  She was the only person who he could depend on to always be there, even as she changed over the years.  He remembered her laugh, their daughter, and he wondered how she was doing.  His fear of being discovered was starting to take over, and he realized he needed to stop and figure out what he was going to do next.  He had killed three people, and if he wasn’t a wanted man by now, he would be eventually.

“I had to do it,” he kept saying over and over.

After about a half hour of getting the vision of his dead wife out of his head, he decided to get out of the shower and call housekeeping to clean up his vomit.  While he waited for the hotel staff to arrive, he watched the soap opera, “The Young and the Restless.”

∞     ∞     ∞

Her pussy was wet, juicy and squirting all over his stiff cock.  He kept pumping her, with her long legs wrapped around his waist, tits pressed against his chest, nipples hard, and her sharp nails digging into his skin as she raked them down his back.  He kissed and sucked her on her neck, biting and nibbling her softly while he pulled out to avoid cumming too soon.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, kissing his earlobe.

He pulled back and stared into her eyes, all glazed over and half open.  Smirking, he kissed her lips, then made his way down, stopping to flick her perky pink nipples with his expert tongue.  Twirling it around her belly button, he looked up to see her close her eyes and open her mouth, starting to moan softly.  He reached up and muffled her cries of pleasure by putting his hand over her mouth.  She opened her eyes and lifted her head, looking at him with a questioned shock, but he kept going down, only looking back up at her when he had her swollen clit between his lips, and was flicking it with his tongue.

He pulled his hand away from her mouth and she screamed loudly as he sucked her little pink clit and slid his right middle finger inside her.  Sliding it in and out slowly, he felt her cumming, her pussy contracting and relaxing around his finger.  He stopped, and thrust his cock back inside of her, propping himself up above her.

“Open your mouth, I have something to give you,” he ordered as he fucked her slowly, slamming her so hard that her head banged against the wall.  She parted her lips uncertainly, then he put his hand over her eyes and spit in her mouth.  Lowering himself to kiss her lips, she started bucking and moaning as she came all over his cock again.  Feeling his orgasm drawing nearer, he pushed himself all the way inside her and took his hand away from her eyes.

“Do you want it inside you?”  He asked her, panting.

She nodded.  “I love you,” she whispered.

“Shut up,” he smiled, and emptied himself deep within her velvet walls.

∞     ∞     ∞

After the housekeeper finished cleaning up the vomit, the killer decided he needed to figure out what he was going to do.  Indio was a big enough place for him to get lost in for a couple of days, but if there were any law enforcement officials looking for him, it was small enough to be noticed, he felt.  The hooker’s car was a nice ride, but if she was well-known, it could be reported stolen.  That was another problem he needed to figure out how to deal with.  His Indio hotel reservation was two nights, and after that, he had no idea where he was going to go.  During the news break after “The Young and the Restless,” he did not notice any reports involving murders or wanted men, but he also knew that the bodies would be found eventually.  Taking the risk of being tracked online was something he was a little afraid of, so he avoided looking up anything about his wife’s disappearance.  He had a story for that, though, should anyone ever come looking for him with the intention of questioning him.

As a child, he had been diagnosed with severe anxiety disorder, and had been placed in a psychiatric ward for an entire summer by his parents.  This came after severe beatings he was subjected to by his father, and he felt that if he was ever confronted by police, he could use that experience as an excuse for his own disappearance.  Nobody would ever suspect him of murder, he was too clean cut and nice for that.  He did not have a job, and had been living off of Sarai’s income for years.  His daughter had been with his mother-in-law the day of Sarai’s murder, and he knew that her mother would be extremely worried about what was going on with both of them, but even she was charmed by him and would never point a finger or even think he could be responsible for her own daughter’s disappearance.  He had no close friends, and did not keep in contact with his own family, so there was nobody who would miss him aside from Sarai’s own family.  For all they knew, both of them had been kidnapped and murdered.  The allowance he had squirrelled away was under a completely different identity and name, one in which he planned to use to live at a later time, but many things needed to happen before he would be able to do that.  The room in Las Vegas had been paid for using cash, and he stayed under an assumed name.  His biggest problem was that even though he had altered his own fingerprints, he still looked the same.  He was slowly realizing that he needed a fall guy.  He would need to find someone with similar looks, and become friends with them to gain their trust.  This would have to be his mission while he was in Indio, which meant he would most likely be staying there for a little longer than he originally planned.

Creating a fall guy for his crimes would be difficult, but he knew it could be done, since he had been able to create a false identity for the money he had saved for so many years while he was married to Sarai.  He would be able to blame this person for her murder, the trucker’s murder, and the hooker’s murder, saying he had been kidnapped, if it came down to it and they were caught before he had the chance to execute his final plan.  He could lie about Sarai’s murder, and use that as an alibi for his kidnapping story, saying he was coerced into doing what the kidnapper wanted after he witnessed her being raped, which was another lie, but it would work.  The killer could also blame the kidnapper for her murder, saying that he was being set up by this person to commit a series of violent crimes.  Twisting the story so that it looked like he was actually the fall guy for the kidnapper.  It was perfect and it had to happen.  But where would he find someone like that?

∞     ∞     ∞

News reports about the car explosion dominated the Las Vegas Sun Newspaper, but police neglected to mention to the media that a body had been found in the trunk of the car.  The car’s VIN number had been mysteriously sanded or scratched off, and both license plates had been removed.  The police knew nothing of the identity of the owner, and were not sure if the dead body had been the person who owned the car or just an unfortunate victim.  By the condition of the body, it was difficult to discern whether the victim had been male or female, and local forensics experts alongside medical examiners were working day and night to determine exactly what happened to this person.

The headlines were grim, but the stories remained eerily positive, detailing the location of the explosion and the type of car it was, but simply stating that police thought it had been an unfortunate accident most likely caused by someone who had been drinking too much on the Strip, and who had probably abandoned their car.  Reporters elaborated that the car had exploded, and the explosion seemed to be caused by a stray cigarette, but they did not mention that the car had been doused with gasoline prior to the explosion, another vital detail the police intentionally kept private.  There was a tip hotline included in the news stories, asking the public to contact the police with any information they might have with regard to the owner of the car.  Furthermore, nothing indicated that any sort of crime had been committed aside from simple neglect.  There was really no cause for alarm, according to the news.

∞     ∞     ∞

The couple walked out of the liquor store, each with a brown bag and a pack of cigarettes in their pockets, headed for the local bus stop.  It was a nice day out, probably in the high 60s or low 70s, and they were planning to visit his mother to ask for some money or a place to stay.  Both of them were unemployed after a recent arrest for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute, in which they were able to plea down to a lesser charge, but they did not have any intentions of cleaning up.  Selling marijuana was how they were able to afford most things when his mother turned them down.  She did not like his girlfriend, but that was common for her, as she never approved of anyone he decided to date.  This particular girlfriend was especially bad news, though, in his mother’s opinion, most likely because she had several solicitation convictions in the past, and was a registered sex offender in the state of California.  Another reason she was not employable.

The killer was across the street at a convenience store, buying some coffee and a donut, when he walked out and saw the couple sitting at the bus stop.  Trying not to stare, he noticed that the guy seemed to have similar features to himself, from what he could tell, but was not sure if it was just his mind playing tricks on him after his odd morning.  It seemed worth pursuing, though, so he thought he would follow the bus they boarded instead of just approaching them at the stop.  Getting in his parked car, he ate his donut and sipped his coffee while he watched both of them in his rearview mirror, as they commenced drinking something unidentifiable out of brown bags and smoking cigarettes.

After about fifteen minutes, the bus arrived, and concealed the couple as they got inside.  The killer turned on his car and pulled out to the exit of the convenience store, waiting until he saw that the bus stop was vacant before he pulled out and followed the bus.  As he did so, he allowed a couple of cars to get in front of him so that hopefully no one would notice his car.  He still was not sure about the guy he saw, but wanted to get a closer look at him.  The girl might be a problem, but then again, he was good with charming women as well, so in reality, the guy he was after would probably be the biggest threat.  If they were riding a bus, though, he could offer them a ride, but needed to make sure they were not armed.  It was a sort of sticky situation, although he was sure he could dominate it no matter what happened.  Maybe he could ask them for drugs, he thought, since they appeared a little disheveled, and that made him think that they were most likely involved with substances.  In addition to that assumption, they were both drinking something in a brown bag publicly, at a bus stop, which is a common disguise for booze.  If they drank booze in public, they were probably druggies, too.  It was a safe assumption, he decided, but his own looks were a little too clean cut to be a drug addict, so that might be a problem for them.  It was still worth a shot, though.

The couple finally exited the bus at a stop approximately three miles from where the killer first started stalking them.  There was a consignment store on the corner just up the street from where they got off the bus, and he decided to park there and continue following them on foot.  He parked his car next to a large van, so hopefully no one at the consignment store would notice it and have it towed or call the parking authority.  He jogged back to the bus stop, and noticed they had walked halfway down a residential street, apparently going to someone’s house.  He followed them at a distance, pretending to be on his phone.  It was a disposable cell phone, since he left his own cell phone at his home after murdering Sarai.

They walked a block and a half, then went up to a home and it looked like they were knocking on someone’s door.  He waited for a minute before getting closer to obtain the address of the home, but they were still on this person’s porch, from what he could see.  It did not look like there were any cars parked at the home in either the driveway or on the street, so it was likely that whoever they were looking for was not home.  They waited for about ten minutes, and he saw them rolling something, it could have been a cigarette.  He watched them after they finished rolling it, and saw that they did not light it.  Why wouldn’t they light it if it were a cigarette?  So, he assumed it was pot, which could be his ticket to earn their trust.

At that time, he decided to jog back to the consignment store, and get his car so he could wait for them to finish whatever they were doing and ask them if they knew of anyone he could get some weed from.  When he got back to his car, the van had moved and he saw that whoever had been driving it seemed to leave a small dent in the driver’s side door, and a note had been left on the windshield with the driver’s information and an apology.  It would not be a good idea to contact them, but he kept the note anyway, just in case.  Getting into his car, he drove down the street to see them walking away from the home, and figured that now was his best opportunity.  Pulling up next to the couple and rolling down the window, he asked them both to come a little closer.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m in a bind,” he said, smiling at them.  Upon seeing the couple much more clearly, he decided the guy looked enough like him to be the one he was looking for.

The girl looked uneasily at her boyfriend, but her boyfriend seemed to notice the same similarity the killer noticed, and looked oddly pleased by it.  “Do I know you?” he asked.  “You look damn familiar.”

The killer shook his head and gave his best confused look.  “I don’t think we’ve met before, but I get that a lot,” he laughed.  “I guess I have one of those kinds of faces.”

The guy laughed too, and the killer felt that this was going to work out very well.  The girl did not speak, and seemed very uncomfortable, but her boyfriend totally ignored her.  She was not a threat at all.

“What can I help you out with, mister?”  The guy asked the killer.

“Well, I’m looking for some weed, my stash is gone and I haven’t received my marijuana card yet,” he shook his head.  “I know this is an odd thing to ask someone you don’t know, but I used to come to this area all the time when I had a friend who sold, but his house was foreclosed and I am not even sure if he is still selling.  For all I know, he could be in prison by now, I haven’t heard a thing from him.”

The guy looked at his girlfriend and she shook her head, whispering something.  The killer felt his heart start beating faster, then decided he should reassure them he was not law enforcement.

“Look, I’m not a cop, I promise, I’m just a guy looking for some weed,” he pulled out a hundred dollar bill and flashed his Arizona driver’s license.  “I haven’t gotten it changed over since moving back here, which might be the cause for the delay in getting my marijuana card.”

The guy looked at his girlfriend, who now seemed to be a little comforted by the killer’s act.  The guy looked back at the killer and said, “Well, we would need a ride, can you give us one?”

The killer nodded, “I have to ask, though, you’re not carrying any weapons are you?” he smiled.

They both shook their heads and emptied their pockets, which only had cigarettes, a few sticks of gum, and about $20, collectively.  They showed the killer what was in the brown bags they held, and he was right, they both had bottles of Jim Beam they were sipping on like coffee.

The killer motioned for them to get in.  “Those bags will have to be hidden, though,” he laughed.  “Don’t want to attract the cops.”

The girl got in the back seat of the car and the guy got up front.  “No problem, mister, we took these on the bus and they didn’t even say anything to us, if you can believe that.”  He started laughing.

The killer did believe it, because he had been watching them, but they had no idea.  This guy would be a perfect fall guy, and his girlfriend would not be a problem, the killer was sure of it.

∞     ∞     ∞

They ended up in the killer’s hotel room, partying until the wee hours of the morning.  The couple had been very generous with information, showing the killer where he could find a steady marijuana dealer until he got his card, and even after, should he need an extra stash.  The killer made up some story about how his house was being built, which was why he was in a cheap hotel room.  The builders had experienced some bullshit delays, and he would be stuck there for a little while longer.  He never intended to stay beyond two days, though, plus he was going to have to change hotel rooms anyway, and since he found this perfect fall guy he knew he could leave Indio sooner than he thought.

The girl passed out on the extra bed in the room, leaving the fall guy and the killer to talk.  They discussed many things about her, how she was a prostitute and she would pretty much do whatever he asked her to do.  The killer asked if he was serious about her, to which the fall guy shook his head vehemently.  “She’s just steady pussy,” he said.  “I have needs, and she’s decent in bed.  She thinks she loves me, but I know she just wants my dick.  Plus, my mom helps us out from time to time, and she doesn’t have any family or anything, so she like hangs on to me.”  He shrugged.  “It’s cool, I don’t really mind, but if I found someone better, I would ditch her.”

The killer laughed.  “Well, what if you ditched her now?”

“What do you mean by that?”

The killer looked hard at his new best friend.  His expression seemed to depict that he was genuinely curious, and not afraid, so he decided to let him in on his plan.  At least, a small part of it.  “I have to tell you something, the reason why I left Arizona in the first place, but I want to make sure you can handle it.  You seem cool, and I think I would like to include you, but it’s messy, and it involves some highly illegal activities.”

The fall guy’s eyes widened, but he seemed interested, and even smiled.  “You kill someone or something?”

Should he tell him yet?  The killer decided to wait, and just laughed.  “Would you kill her?”  He asked, motioning toward the sleeping girl.

The fall guy looked at her for a minute, then back at the killer.  He shrugged his shoulders, seemingly considering the idea.  “Why?”  He asked, finally.

“Just because you wanted to,” the killer continued, calmly.  “She’s just a groupie, like you said, and without you, she is nothing.  What good can she do you besides put out?  Why would you need her around?”

The fall guy looked at the girl again, who seemed to stir in her sleep, and then she switched sides.  She started snoring, and the fall guy looked back at the killer.  “But how would I do it?”  He stared hard at the killer.  “Or how would we do it?”

The killer looked at the sleeping, snoring girl and studied her position.  She was laying on her right side, her left leg draped over her right, both arms folded so that her hands were in a position that made her look like she was praying.  Her mouth was open, and her hair was swept back.  It would be easy to tie her up, especially in that position.  The only thing they would need to worry about would be her screams.

“Tell you what,” the killer started, handing the fall guy another hundred dollar bill.  “Go up to the store, there is a 24-hour grocery store about a mile from here.  Just walk there, it will be easier to hide from any police, if there happen to be any out.  Buy some duct tape, toilet paper, some microwave meals and plastic utensils.  Oh, and get some napkins.”

The fall guy agreed.  “You going to kill her while I’m gone?”  He asked.

The killer laughed and shook his head no.  “I’m going to wait for you to get back with the duct tape, so hurry up.  And go ahead and keep the change,” he smiled.

The fall guy smiled.  “Okay,” he agreed, and left the hotel room.

∞     ∞     ∞

It was nearing dawn when the fall guy got back to the hotel room with the supplies, but the girl was still fast asleep.  “She a hard sleeper?” The killer asked his partner, to which he nodded his head affirmatively.  “Okay, the killer replied, “this is how it’s going to work.

“First, I want you to bind her ankles while I bind her hands.  If she wakes up and starts screaming, let her scream.  She has a record for prostitution, no one would believe her if anyone heard it and decided to call the cops.”  The killer shook his head.  “No one is going to call the cops, though, so don’t worry about it too much.”

The fall guy’s eyes widened.  “What do we do after she’s tied up?”  He asked.

“We put duct tape over her mouth.  I want her to see, though, so we aren’t going to cover her eyes.”

The fall guy nodded in agreement.  “Now?”

“Yes.”

The two started binding the sleeping girl, and she slept right through it.  Then, the killer put duct tape over her mouth, which was when she woke up.

“That duct tape secure on her ankles?”  The killer asked the fall guy.

“Yes,” he replied, putting more around them to make sure, while she started kicking at him.  “Can you hold her down, though?”

The killer grabbed her thighs hard, and she raised up, banging against his back with her bound fists and making muffled noises through her gag.  He turned back and punched her in the face.

“Hit me again and I’ll gouge your eye out and feed it to your boyfriend, whore,” the killer ordered.  He saw tears falling from her eyes, which looked horrified.

“What do we do now?” the fall guy asked.

“Wrap her up in the comforter.  Don’t kill her yet, though, we need to take her somewhere else.”

The fall guy nodded, and began wrapping up his girlfriend in the hotel room comforter.  “Where are we taking her?”  He asked, not a hint of guilt or remorse in his voice, or in his eyes.

“I’m going to back my car up to the door, and we are going to load her in the trunk.”  He looked out the window, and while there was a hint of light, it was still dark enough outside to be hidden.  “Stay here,” he told the fall guy.  “I’m going to make sure no one is out yet.”

The killer walked outside and moved his car, noticing a family getting into their SUV.  Once they left, he exited his car and went back in the hotel room.

“Let’s load her up in the trunk,” the killer said, “but make sure to open the blanket a little around her face because I want her to be alive for right now.”

The fall guy nodded, and picked up his girlfriend by the shoulders while the killer picked her up by her feet.  The fall guy ordered the girl to keep quiet or they would do horrible things to her.  She whimpered and cried, her eyes pleading, but the fall guy looked at the killer for more direction, eagerly.

Carefully placing the girl in the trunk and closing it, the killer walked back into the hotel room to retrieve his car keys.  Then he placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door, as they would be back in a few hours, hopefully sooner.  He was getting hungry.

“Okay, there is a place about an hour away that would be perfect to do this,” the killer started.

“Is it in the mountains?” The fall guy asked.  “Because I know of a place down there where no one usually goes.”

The killer smiled, quite pleased with his new project.  “Great, do you want to drive?”

The fall guy shook his head.  “I don’t have my driver’s license, it was revoked, so if we got pulled over, it would be a very bad thing.”

“No problem, just show me how to get there,” the killer said, and even though he didn’t like the idea of the fall guy driving anyway, he was sure it earned him some bonus trust points to ask him.

They drove out near the Santa Rosa-San Jacinto Mountains National Monument, as the sun started to rise behind them.  There was no noise coming from the trunk of the car, and when they got to their destination, the fall guy kept saying he was afraid she was dead.

“You told her to be quiet, right?”  The killer asked.

The fall guy nodded.

“She is probably back there just crying, let’s take a look.”  The killer popped the trunk, and sure enough, the girl was soaked in her own tears, her hair stuck to some of the duct tape, face reddened from crying.

“Should we take her out now?”  The fall guy asked.

“Yes, let’s prop her up next to a tree or something if you can find one.”

Finding a tree which grew betwixt a pile of large boulders, they removed the blanket and sat the girl upright against the tree.  Then, they bound her to the tree using duct tape, wrapping it below her breasts and around the tree trunk until all the tape was gone.

It was extremely quiet, so the killer felt safe removing her gag.  He wanted to listen to her pathetic pleas for her life.  It was one of his favorite parts of killing.  Something he never got to hear from Sarai.  It was almost like that first kill was something he wanted to relive, and do over.  If he had the opportunity to kill her all over again, there were so many other things he would want to do.  What would she have said?  What would her bargaining have sounded like?  He would never know.

“Alright, girlie, I think if you scream now, no one will hear you, but I wouldn’t suggest it too much,” the killer said, yanking the tape from her mouth.

“Why are you doing this to me?”  She sobbed.  She looked at her boyfriend.  “I love you, why are you both doing this to me?”

The fall guy looked at the killer, completely ignoring her.  “What do you want to do now?”

“Well, I think you should decide how you want to kill her, but I can give you some advice,” he said.

“What’s the advice?”

“I would let her plea for her life, toy around with her for a little bit, and then cut off her head,” the killer suggested.

“Cut her fucking head off?”  The fall guy’s eyes got huge, then he started laughing maniacally.

The killer couldn’t help but laugh, and the girl started to scream and cry, to which he responded with a backhanded slap to her face.  “Shut the fuck up, slut,” he ordered.  “You’re not the one in charge here.  You don’t get to decide how to die today.”

She looked at her boyfriend, her mouth dripping blood, tears falling from her tired eyes.  “Why?  I thought you loved me.”

“Why the fuck would you think that?  Because I was fucking you?  You are nothing but pussy to me, bitch,” he sneered.  He looked at the killer.  “What are we going to use to cut her head off?”  He looked around.  “These rocks?”  He started laughing again, seemingly very excited about murdering his girlfriend.

The killer was fighting back his own laughter.  It was nice to meet someone who had a blood lust matching his own.  It was not only nice, it was totally perfect.  He pulled out a new serrated edge knife from his back pocket.  “It will take you a little while to do it, but this will work.”  He handed it to the fall guy, who looked it over, then looked back at his girlfriend.

“What else you got in the car?”  The fall guy asked the killer.

The killer almost thought the fall guy seemed like he was trying to take control of the situation, and he let him think it for a minute, faking a little fear in his eyes.  Then, he pulled out his .22 from the back of his pants, showing it to the fall guy, who looked impressed.

“Please, don’t kill me,” the girl cried pathetically.

The fall guy looked at the girl, then back at the killer, then back at the girl.  He walked up to her and she lowered her eyes, crying and sobbing uncontrollably.   He started cutting out her left eye, and she screamed like a dying animal.

“No, oh my God, stop it!  Oh my God, please!”

The fall guy pulled out the girl’s eye and showed it to her.  “Look at it!”  He ordered.

The killer was very impressed.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?”

“Look at your nasty eye!”  The fall guy put it up to her mouth, which she closed and moved her head to the side.  “I want you to taste it, bitch,” he ordered her, to which she responded with another muffled cry, her mouth closed.

The killer stepped up to her and grabbed her hair, kneeling down and pulling it up so that her head was immobilized.  She closed her other eye in response, keeping her mouth closed.  “Do what he says or I will cut your head off,” the killer ordered.

She whimpered, making pathetic noises through her nose.  The fall guy pinched her nose hard and screamed at her to open her mouth.  Eventually, because she needed to breathe, she complied, and he shoved her gouged-out eyeball into her mouth, then clamped his hand tightly over it.

“Bite down on it!”  The fall guy ordered.  “Do it or you’re going to get your head cut off!”

She bit down and immediately began heaving, but the fall guy kept his hand clamped tightly over her mouth.  “Fucking eat it!”  He demanded.

The killer continued holding her hair, pointing his .22 at her head.  He looked at the fall guy, who seemed very passionate about killing this girl.  He almost wondered if he had done it before.

The girl continued chewing her own eye, crying, gagging, but not swallowing.

“Swallow it,” the killer calmly ordered her.

She tried to shake her head, but could not move as the killer had a firm grip on her hair near her scalp.

“Do it,” the killer said again, this time whispering in her ear.  “Swallow your eye.”

She bitterly complied, choking back vomit as the fall guy held her mouth closed and the killer held her head using her hair.  Vomit started spewing out of her nose and the fall guy pulled his hand away, an expression of grotesque distaste on his face.

“Sick!”  He cried, looking to the killer for direction.  “What do I do now?”

“Whatever you want,” the killer replied, the gun still at the girls head as she continued to vomit, starting to choke.

“Can you just shoot her?”  The fall guy asked, looking like he was going to vomit next.

“I can, but you still have to cut her up.”

“Fuck man, I don’t know if I can cut her up,” he shook his head and turned his back on the girl and the killer.

“Yes you can,” the killer said calmly.  “Here, I’ll shoot her now.”

The girl had one final plea for her life, “Wait,” she begged.  “I need to say something, please, before you kill me,” she begged.

The fall guy and the killer both looked at her.  The killer spoke first, “What would you like to say?”

She wept for a few seconds, then said, “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name.  Thy Kingdom come.  Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.  Give us this day our daily bread.  And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.  For thine is the Kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.  Amen.”  She looked at her boyfriend one last time, and whispered, “I forgive you.”

The killer shot her once and ended her young life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX:  Walking in the Sand

The ride back to the hotel was tense, and the two hardly spoke to one another.  The fall guy kept picking at his fingernails and biting them, looking at the killer nervously, as if he assumed he would be next to die.  The girl’s last words were echoing in his head and he was almost starting to feel like he made a big mistake, but he knew if he did not follow the killer’s lead, his life would surely end.

“I need to stop and take a piss, do you want to get something to eat now or wait until we get back to the room?”  The killer asked, as if they hadn’t just made a girl eat her own eyeball.

The fall guy hesitated for a moment and shook his head.  “I can wait until we get back,” he responded.

The killer nodded and pulled over into a rest area.  Leaving the fall guy in the car alone, he walked up to the men’s room to use the toilet.  The fall guy took this opportunity to look through the car and see if he could get to know this guy a little better.

The glove box was completely empty aside from a proof of insurance card and what looked like bloody gloves.  He looked at the insurance cards and saw the name on it had been removed, as if an eraser was used on it.  The car was registered in Nevada, and he realized that the plates on it were from California.  When he met the killer at the bus stop, the fall guy remembered he showed him an Arizona license.  The fall guy kept looking around the car for clues to the killer’s true identity, but could find nothing aside from the gloves and the proof of insurance.  He picked up the gloves and noticed that the blood had seeped from the inside out, and he put his hand inside one of them to feel a substance that felt like coagulated, crusted, old blood on the fingertips.  Taking the glove off as the killer emerged from the bathroom, the fall guy tried to look like he was just sitting patiently waiting, even though his heart raced with fear.

The killer got back in the car and started the engine, not even looking over at the fall guy.  It seemed like the killer was totally at ease, to the fall guy, and this made him more nervous.  He had to know more about this man.

“So,” he started, “I wanted to ask you about what just happened out there.”

The killer nodded as he pulled back out on to the freeway.  “Okay, go ahead.”

“Have you done this before?  I mean, have you killed more than one person?”  The fall guy laughed nervously.  “Because, I mean, you seem like a natural, you know?”

“So do you, actually,” the killer laughed.  “Yes, to answer your question.  She will be the fourth person I have murdered in the time span of a week.  The first was my wife, the second was an unlucky truck driver, and the third was some hooker in Vegas.”  He beat the steering wheel with his fists.  “This is actually her car.”

The fall guy felt his stomach turning.  “You killed your wife?”

The killer nodded affirmatively.  “It was something I had been planning for years, but honestly, after I did it, I went a little crazy.  I mean, I didn’t intend to kill two more people that quickly afterward, and this girlfriend of yours…”

“She ain’t my girlfriend, and never was,” the fall guy said shortly.

“Okay, fair enough, this girl you were fucking was also more of a victim of opportunity.”  The killer cast a sideways glance at the fall guy and could tell he seemed nervous.  “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on killing you.  I need you.”

The fall guy looked at the killer, confused and scared.  “You need me?  For what?”

“How many people have you killed?”  The killer asked as he continued to drive back toward Indio.

“Why do you think I’ve killed anyone?”

“Well, you were very eager and willing to kill that girl today, and you cut her eye out without me even prompting you to.”

The fall guy shuddered.  The real reason he decided at the last minute to cut the girl’s eye out is because of what the killer had mentioned back at the hotel.  He had said he would cut her eye out and feed it to him, and he got the idea from that conversation, but didn’t want to admit it to the killer, because he felt like that would give him the ultimate power over him.  He didn’t want him to know that he was terrified of him now.  He decided to lie.

“I killed two people a few years ago on contract,” he fibbed.  “It was a gang thing with a couple of my buddies.  They wanted these guys dead because they didn’t pay them off for heroin, so I killed them, but nothing like what we did today.”

“How did you kill them?”  The killer asked.

“I shot them both, execution style, then buried them out in the desert.”

“Do you remember where in the desert you buried their bodies?”

His heart racing, he thought of another lie to tell.  “Yep, but they’ve been moved.  The guys who contracted me to kill them two were paranoid about the bodies being found, and I don’t know where they got moved to.”

The killer seemed to believe him, and just nodded, continuing to drive.

The fall guy decided to continue the conversation.  “What are we going to do now?  I mean, we are in a stolen car, right?  And we just killed that girl, so shouldn’t we start, like, thinking of a plan to escape?”

The killer smiled.  “I’m one step ahead of you, kid.”

The fall guy didn’t like the sound of that, but decided to play along.  He didn’t want to die, after all.   He laughed.  “Want to include me in that plan?”

“Well, I decided that we should get out of the country.  First of all, I’ve committed two capital offenses in Arizona, and if I’m caught, they will put me in the gurney and I’ll die by lethal injection.  I have also committed a capital offense in Nevada, but they are not going to catch me for that, I just have a feeling.  I’m more worried about Arizona than Nevada, to be honest with you.   So, I think we should go to Mexico.  First, I would like to live out my fantasy, though, but I want to involve you in it.”

“Involve me how?  What kind of fantasy?”

The killer smirked.  “I have always wanted to be a serial killer, you know, it’s something I have fantasized about my whole life.  After I killed my wife, I just went nuts with power, but now, I think I could do it with a little more finesse, if you will.  I think that since I am in a state where no one knows me, I could become like, a highway serial killer and pick up hitch hikers.  People no one cares about.

“My wife and the truck driver were high risk victims, and I’m worried about how that might impact my future.  The hooker I killed for this car could be well known, but she’s still a hooker, so I think I have a little more time there.  The two in Arizona are the biggest ones, but again, I went nuts after I killed my wife.”

The fall guy tried not to stare at the killer and let his fear get the best of him.  “Okay, so how do I fit into all this?”

“You get to be my co-pilot,” the killer smiled widely.  “You get to scope out the victims, and I will carry out the crime.  You can help if you want to, but you don’t have to.”

“Where are we going to go afterward, Mexico?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“But I don’t have a passport, do you have one?”

The killer shook his head.  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t use it under my real name.  What would be the point of that?  I can create fake ones to get us across.  If it comes down to it, we can get across illegally, I know a way to get past the border security.  It’s a lot easier to get into Mexico from the United States illegally than it is to get into the United States from Mexico illegally.”

The fall guy was starting to become a little interested, but was still afraid.  “Okay, I mean, what choice do I have, right?”

The killer looked almost offended.  “You always have a choice.  If you don’t want to go, I can take you wherever you want to go.”  It was a lie, the killer was definitely not going to let him go free, but he wanted the fall guy to trust him completely.

The fall guy seemed to buy it.  “I want to go with you.  I just meant that the longer I stay in California after her murder, the worse my chances are.  I would probably get caught, and I don’t want to go to prison.  So I’m in.”

“Great!  It’s settled then.”  The killer’s stomach rumbled loudly.  “Fuck, I’m hungry!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN:  Killing You Was Fun

Your heart was ripe for the plucking,

Waiting with baited breath.

Like a whore all used up from fucking;

I stole your innocence, and all that’s left

Is a carcass, a broken shell of a being.

It was never supposed to end this way.

Although I can’t stop thinking of reliving…

Just to imagine what you might say.

You wore your heart like a noose;

So innocent and so very naïve.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked being used,

But killing you was the only way I could grieve.

You see, your death was just the beginning

Of the end of weakness within me.

Killing you made me feel like I was winning;

Finally able to alleviate my pain and be free.

Let me kill you again, oh my lost love.

Allow me those moments to feel you dying.

I’ll keep you happy and fool you again, my bloated dove;

A second time, you’d never know I was lying.

Can I kill you?  Oh please, let’s just pretend

You don’t feel the mortal danger you’re in.

May I kill you?  I’ll only ask to do it again…

It won’t hurt once I’ve pierced your skin.

I’m only lying again…

Can I take your life over and over?

May I use you to end my own?

And when your soul departs, sweet lover,

Look down on me and see I’m not alone.

Your body serves its final purpose;

I will desecrate you lovingly.

Remains of what I couldn’t give your stiffened carcass

Come through me, unto you, so easily.

Just live through me.

Can I kill you again?  Just for fun.

Once more, then I’ll be done.

There can never be only one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT:  Indian Princess

     There weren’t many opportunities to really talk to him, but I did what I could with the time I was allowed.  Everyone wondered why I was so secretive about the whole thing, and I knew certain people could tell that there was something different about me, even though they partially knew what it was.  I didn’t want to give too much away too soon, though.  I kept creating decoys, distractions, anything I could find to take the attention away from what I was really doing.

     Thinking back, it was so easy.  I didn’t even have to plan it, to be quite honest.  I just went with what came naturally to me, and that is the part that scares me the most.  I feel that somewhere inside me is this brooding sociopath, but I know I’m not really like that because I feel compassion.  Sociopaths can’t feel compassion.  Sociopaths can’t feel period.

     In the beginning, it was so cryptic, I am surprised he actually went along with it.  He was very willing to give me information about what he felt when he could, and how he was being affected by everything that was going on around him.  Maybe those were all lies, thinking back on it today.  They couldn’t have all been lies, though.  Too much information was exchanged.  Then again, I was lying at my core, but I got a little carried away with it myself.  Not everything I told him was a lie, therefore, it is asinine to assume that he was lying the entire time also.

     I tell this story now from the viewpoint of someone who has actually had sufficient time to really process everything that I went through, that I put him through, and that he put others through.  He put me through some shit, too, but I expected it, so it would be unfair for me to say that he really had much control over the circumstances.  The whole time, I controlled him.  I controlled every aspect of him.  I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and discern it in the subjects we discussed.  There was nothing he would not have done for me.  I took full advantage of that, not because that is the kind of person I am, but because he deserved for that to happen to him.

     Does that make me any better than him?  Maybe not.  But, I never killed anyone.  Not in the physical sense, anyway. 

    The truth of the matter is that when he was working his “magic” on me, I saw right through each and every weak attempt.  I felt like he was looking at me like some stupid little person who had no self-esteem at all.  I used that to my advantage.  I gained so much from those interactions; just trying to understand how I was really putting myself out there.  Luckily, I was able to pull myself out of danger because I realize now that at the right time, when it absolutely counted the most, I trusted my instincts, something I had never really been able to do before.

     Now, I’m afraid to even get close to anyone.  Mainly because I know what I did, and part of me still feels like it was wrong, even though it probably wasn’t.  Was it?

     It is always interesting to see what someone in a life-threatening situation will do to save themselves, but he didn’t do anything to save himself from me.  He simply went with it.  He had to know that I was lying, I made it too obvious.  However, what is obvious to the cunning fox is not as obvious to the field mouse, yes?  I think that maybe our different thought patterns were directly contributing to the events that led up to his death.  I didn’t kill him, but I helped destroy him.  He was an evil man.  He hurt many, many people and would have continued to hurt more if I wouldn’t have stood in his way.

     I am only a small fraction of what caused his ultimate demise.  I only stood in the way of him having more time to hurt people.  Being a sociopath does not entail protecting innocent people from pain.  So, maybe I’m not a sociopath after all.  Maybe I deserve more than what I have allowed myself to have since our lives crossed paths.  The things I told him will haunt me, but the things he showed me were far more than I could ever describe to anyone without them thinking I was involved somehow.

     Was I involved?  I would say no, not directly, but yes, like someone in the bleachers at a baseball game might be involved in a game.  That was about the degree to which I was mixed in with his activities.  I didn’t know anything, but that doesn’t matter to some people.  What matters is that it was a part of me, is a part of me, and I know I could garner sympathy from many people for the experiences I went through, but knowing him like I did, I’m not sure if I deserve that.

     At the end of the day, I destroyed a very strong man and deep down inside, I feel good about it because I know he deserved it.  There are others who might disagree with me, but not very many.  When all is said and done, he was the one I needed to destroy to survive.  Kill or be killed.  With my history, it was inevitable.  There are so many things that led up to this.  Meeting him was the catalyst.  I never expected it to turn out exactly the way it did, but I went with it and just used the experience to further my own means.  I suppose that is why I feel guilt.  Misplaced, perhaps, but guilt nonetheless.  There is something to be said about making a strong man weak, and while I loved doing it and would do it again if it suited me, I still feel that it says something about me, too.

     The biggest problem I have now is trusting other people.  I suppose when you have seen the things I have seen and been a part of one of the worst betrayals another human being can experience, you might have trust issues also.  This is something I am learning to cope with.  If you want to break it down to brass tacks, I abused him much like he abused me.  I am no better than he is, although the scales are weighed heavily in his favor, if that makes any sense.  He hurt more people than I could ever dream of doing, but if I were put in a similar situation, I would do what I did again and would not think twice.  I could not predict something like that, though, it wouldn’t be premeditated.

     Why do I feel guilty for saving my own life?  This is something I question myself about daily.  I love my life, and I am very happy.  I have everything someone like me could want, with the exception of a few relationships.  I don’t mind being alone, I have learned to adapt.  I’m not alone all the time, though, maybe that is one reason why I don’t mind it.  When I am alone, I can find peace.  Thoughts sometimes go back to him, but not in the way one might expect.  Mostly when I think of him now, I feel victorious and powerful.  I feel like I took his power when I took his heart, and if it wasn’t for me, he would still be doing what he did best.

     He was too passionate about me.  That was the biggest problem I had, and I think that is why I feel a little ill at ease when I am in the budding phase of a romantic relationship.  He built me up to impossible standards – ones no one could ever uphold, much less a downtrodden, middle-class person like me.  I will admit, I did enjoy the ego boost, but I know in my heart that he was blowing smoke up my ass.  I always knew it, but I think I needed it at that time, just to get me through the experience of actually knowing him.  It’s not something I would ever want to relive, but it is something I am able to see about myself now.  Maybe I was a stupid little person with low self-esteem.  Maybe I think too much.

     I was smarter than he was, and he used me for that.  I didn’t realize it until later, well, I didn’t put two and two together until after the fact.  Math was never my strong point.  He needed me to get him out of situations he put himself in, and I was able to do that every time.  My payment came in the form of praise.  At least, until the bitter end.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINE:  Casino Cunt

It seemed to take hours before he decided on the perfect one.  They both lurked, watching, waiting for the right time to strike.  She sat at one slot machine, smoking cigarette after cigarette, her fat ass draped over each side of the stool so that it looked like it had become a part of her, an extension protruding from within her cavernous pit.

The Palm Springs casino smelled like an ashtray, but once you spent enough time in there, you got used to it.  You grew to crave it if you were like this woman, it was almost certain.  She lit cigarette number 82, and took a big puff, coughing without covering her mouth.  The people around her didn’t even seem to notice.  The fat woman was winning, it seemed, but was just dumping money into the machine that it could hardly have been much of a profit, if any at all.

Gambling is an addiction much like drugs or alcohol.  People who gamble get a rush from winning, but also are able to justify the amount of money they spend, even if they end up in a hole because of it.  If it enables them to grow on slot machine stools like chia pets and collect even a small amount of money while puffing on cheap cigarettes all day, it seems like a win win situation to them.  The ones at the tables are worse, but similar in that they, too, are addicted to the entire process.  Gambling money is a losing battle, but the gambler doesn’t see it that way.  Gambling with lives is another game entirely.

Once she had collected a large amount of change and noticed that she did not have any more cigarettes, she peeled herself off of the stool and proceeded to the change counter to turn in her coins for bills, most likely so she could buy more cigarettes.  They followed her at a distance, unable to miss her waddling fat ass and distinct sounding cough.  She yelled at the person behind the counter about something, it was inaudible from that distance, but it was easily assumed that she was taken aback by the amount of money she actually “made,” and it was very likely that it was much less than she needed.  That’s what happens with gambling addicts; they are so involved in the routine of pissing their bank accounts away that they hardly realize they have done it until it’s too late.  Most gamblers either live off of their families or their spouses, some of them are hookers, and an even less percentage of them are in the mob.  Most of them are just petty thieves and drug addicts, though she looked like she was probably the wife of some poor sap who forked over money to fuel her addiction just to keep her away from him.  Maybe on disability or something, even though it was obvious that she wasn’t disabled at all.  In short, a large percentage of addicted gamblers are just losers altogether.

She was a perfect victim.

Once she got outside, they both approached her at her car, a beat up Toyota Corolla with the windows down.  She told them both to fuck off initially, mumbling something about having to pick up her son, but she looked about 65.  If she was picking up her son, then he had to be an even bigger loser than she was.  This would be a little difficult to pull off, since it seemed like she was going to put up a fight.

The fall guy went for their own car while the killer took control of her with his gun to her head.  She seemed to suddenly obey his every command, and when the fall guy returned with their car, she was led into the backseat, with the killer at her side, gun pointed at her head the entire time.  The fall guy drove them out of the parking lot of the Fantasy Springs resort, and while the killer was trying to bind the casino cunt’s hands and feet, the fall guy proceeded down Route 86, headed toward Avenue 60 and Grapefruit Blvd.

∞     ∞     ∞

The night came quickly, and the casino cunt’s muffled cries were hidden by the howls of coyotes a few miles away.  It was difficult to tell, but they would soon have a luscious feast.  She was well-fed, a little too much so, but would make for a great meal for those wild animals.  The killer wrapped her up in a sleeping bag stored in the trunk of the car, which they would soon have to get rid of.  The fat cunt put up such a fight that they had to stab her, so her blood was all over the backseat of the car.  The killer and the fall guy didn’t have time to hear her begging for her life, rationalizing why they should let her go, even after she was stabbed.  Stuffing an old sock in her mouth and wrapping duct tape around the entire lower half of her face, the killer left room only for her to breathe through her nose.

She had done nothing but just been at the wrong place at the wrong time.  So much can be said for looking like a victim, and looking like a perpetrator.  Is it better to be one or the other?  Or is it not as easily discerned by the layperson?  So many law enforcement officials might advise people to avoid appearing like a victim, but how does one do that?  Self-defense courses could help, but when a predator wants to strike, there is not going to be much to stop them, of course, unless that would-be victim has a gun or knows some form of martial arts.  It is not wise to live in fear, though, but to be distracted to the point of not even recognizing when someone is in danger is perhaps the most dangerous position to be in.  To an experienced killer, everyone is a would-be victim, and the only thing standing in the way of their ultimate act of aggression is opportunity.

To scare away any wildlife out there in the nothingness of the desert just southeast of Palm Springs, the killer left the headlights of the car on, and put in a CD, playing Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat.  He began to sing as they laid the casino cunt on the dirt and just watched her writhing around, unable to escape.  The fall guy just seemed to stand there, incredulous, not sure what he was actually witnessing.  It was theatrical, fascinatingly horrifying, but something he could not escape from, because he didn’t want to go to prison.  He was doing his best to be the killer’s best friend, confidante, and everything he needed from him.  It was his lifeline.  Listening to this psycho sing the words to the popular 80s song would haunt him, his dreams, and his every waking minute.  This was not what he signed up for when he met the killer a few days ago, before they murdered his innocent girlfriend.

For a moment while the killer continued singing, the fall guy’s thoughts wandered back to the girl who loved him, and was so devoted to him.  He remembered his mother’s warning about her, and how she didn’t feel that the girl was good enough for him.  The last words the sweet girl said to him, that she forgave him, almost brought tears to his eyes.  Tears he fought vehemently to keep from falling.  He could still feel her shaking while he removed her eye.  Why had he turned on her?  Why didn’t he save her from that horrible fate?  So many questions, but no time to ponder what the answers could be.  The killer was kneeling down singing to the new victim, who was sobbing and sniffling, continuing to writhe around in the dirt, even though she was wrapped up in a sleeping bag, and underneath that, she was bound with rope along with duct tape around her ankles and wrists.  They had tied her wrists to her waist using rope around the entire width of her body to secure her fat arms.  The killer used a large hunting knife to cut open the sleeping bag and her cries got louder, more urgent.  Her eyes sought out some sort of salvation, staring at the fall guy as he just stood there, unable to move.

The killer turned her body over so her stomach was on the dirt and she was face down.  Bonnie Tyler’s voice was serenading the threesome as the killer cut the fat woman’s clothing off.  She had soiled her pants and the fierce odor permeated the once fresh air.  The killer chastised her for being dirty and disgusting, and began cutting a fleshy piece of her rear end, almost like fileting a fish.  She screamed and cried, albeit muffled and inaudible due to the gag and the music, but a pleading cry nonetheless.  Once a steak-sized portion of the woman had been sliced away, the killer sang more loudly, dangling the piece from his hunting knife and putting it in her face so she could see it.  She stared in horror and continued to cry.

The killer took the piece of the fat woman’s ass off of his knife, still looking at her, still singing, and threw it a few yards away for the coyotes.  They would be by soon.  Their howls could not be heard over the music, but the smell of a fresh kill would attract all kinds of wildlife.

The killer positioned the hunting knife as one might position a microphone, and continued singing, really putting his body into the song.  Belting out the lyrics loudly while the fall guy watched, partly amused but mostly horrified.  The woman screamed and cried, almost sounding like she was becoming hoarse.

“And I need you now tonight, and I need you more than ever, and if you only hold me tight, we’ll be holding on forever!”  He sang.  He had a really great voice, all terrors aside.  He should have been a professional singer.

He handed the knife to the fall guy and ordered him to decapitate the fat woman.  The fall guy held the knife in his hands, shaking, but he knew he had to do it, or he might be the one who was killed instead.  The killer removed the fat woman’s gag and she begged for her life, screaming, crying, and vomiting.  It was a sight for sore eyes.  The fall guy knelt down close to her and her cries seemed to become less urgent.  He said nothing, he just stared into her eyes.  She looked so pathetic and helpless.

“I really need you tonight!  Forever’s gonna start tonight!”  The killer sang.

“I’m sorry, I have to do this,” the fall guy whispered to the woman, and her eyes grew wide.

The fall guy took the first slice and listened to her gurgling pleading, then continued cutting for about five minutes until the head was removed.  She continued to writhe for a good minute or two after she had been decapitated.

“Turn around bright eyes…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN:  The Profile of an American Serial Killer – The Route 86 Slayer

John Doe, birthdate unknown

Imperial County, California, United States

a.k.a. “The Route 86 Slayer,” “The Highway Man,” “The Headless Horseman”

COMPOSITE SKETCH HAS NOT YET BEEN CREATED

THE ROUTE 86 SLAYER IN FIVE WORDS:  Narcissist, mutilator, anti-social, sodomite, arrogant.

 

The Route 86 Slayer, as Southern California police are calling him, could be the most heinous serial killer in American history.  While much remains unknown about him, police have uncovered many clues which could help reveal his identity.  No eyewitnesses have come forward at the time of this press release.  It is hereby advised that if anyone knows anything about The Route 86 Slayer, they should contact their local authorities immediately.  This man is armed and very dangerous. 

Weapons of choice seem to be a .22 caliber pistol, a hunting knife, a .9mm pistol, and he is also very likely wearing some sort of disguise.  It is also very likely that he does not have a criminal record, possibly someone who works in law enforcement, or has some knowledge of forensic science.  He is believed to be driving, though the type of car he is in remains unknown.

The clues to this man’s identity lie in his crimes.  To date, police have found 14 decapitated bodies along Route 86, from Palm Springs to Calexico.  His victims vary in age, and the one thing they all have in common is that they are unknowns as well.  This leads authorities to believe that this serial killer is a methodical, mission-oriented type of serial murderer.  He has likely selected his victims based upon their lack of social involvement.  Police believe this is a man because of the varying size and strength of the victims.  The bodies of men as well as women have been uncovered.  The youngest victim found to date appears to be as young as 19 or 20. 

In addition to this, police believe this man is wealthy and able to travel without needing much in the way of luggage.  He is very likely to have the ability to blend in to a crowd if he needs to.  Police also believe this man is not from California, and probably migrated here from either Nevada or Arizona.  Police are certain he is familiar with the area, however.  Investigations into other unsolved murders and decapitations are being conducted in both Nevada and Arizona, possibly in connection with the string of decapitations on Route 86.

The Route 86 Slayer also leaves cryptic haikus behind which seem to be written in the victim’s blood.  These haikus have been found in the mouths of the victim’s decapitated heads, eerily pointing police in the direction of where the killer might be found.  These haikus are not yet available for public perusal.  Because of these haikus, police believe the Route 86 Slayer is somewhat intelligent and highly arrogant.  Police also believe that this could be an indicator of his ability to interact with others, and feel he could possibly be soft-spoken and non-threatening.  Police also believe he could be considered attractive.

The Route 86 Slayer has a classic narcissist personality judging by his victims’ remains.  He takes pride in his kills and because of this, it is very likely that he suffers from anti-social personality disorder.  He lacks empathy and does not feel remorse.

Until this madman is apprehended, it is strongly advised that drivers along Route 86 from Palm Springs to Calexico keep a close eye out for anyone appearing to need roadside assistance, or anyone who might be hitch-hiking.  Contact authorities immediately if you see anything suspicious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN:  Brawley

The risk of being caught by police was very real, and terrifying to the fall guy.  His every action contradicted his every thought, his every emotion.  The string of homicides were over, but the running had only just begun.  The killer seemed to be able to calculate each move according to the last with careful precision, but lacked forethought.  It was as if he didn’t ever feel he would be apprehended, like it couldn’t happen to him.  The fall guy was slowly starting to realize he was being used so that he could be framed, but by then, there was nothing he could do.  He had committed most of the crimes, therefore, he was the real Route 86 Slayer, as the papers were calling them.  The police did not even know this was a duo, not just one person acting alone.  It was as if the entire time he was trying to survive, he was only playing into the killer’s plan and digging his own grave.

The police would surely find them, and what would the killer have to say then?  Of course, the fall guy realized he was too valuable to the killer to die by this time, because without him, he would have no one to take the fall.  So why was the killer continuing to take him to Mexico?  It was as if the killer actually liked him now, and wanted his company.  The fall guy was too caught up in the entire situation that he could not do anything more than try to make the best of it.

Conversations between the two were strained, and the fall guy felt like he was walking on eggshells the entire time he was with the killer, even though the killer had a sunny disposition most days.  If they had met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.   The fall guy couldn’t help but think about how he was going to get out of this situation, even though he could have left it at any time, or simply murdered his captor.  At that point, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.  Maybe that’s what the killer wanted all along.

After they had gotten rid of the car, they had traveled on foot for a time, hitch-hiking and staying with questionable people.  The duo hadn’t killed anyone in over four months.  Their story was that they had been attacked by the Route 86 Slayer but he only wanted their car, to anyone who asked.  The news had glamorized the killings to the point of public fascination, and people told tales of things they had heard about the Route 86 Slayer.  No one knew what he looked like, and no one expected him to have a partner, so their story worked every time they needed it to.

By the time they reached Brawley, CA, the fall guy had an epiphany.  He decided he had to end this relationship, and he was going to do it when the killer least expected it.  He felt that he knew enough about the killer to pin the murders he had actually committed on him.  It had to work, and it would be perfect.  The killer’s own plan backfiring on him, blowing up in his face.  His only problem was that he didn’t know if he could make it back up to his mother’s house.  The killer knew where his mother lived, and if the fall guy didn’t make it there before the killer did, he knew the killer would take his anger out on her.  He had to act, and he had to do it soon, before he got to Mexico.  For all he knew, the FBI was waiting for them there.  Who wouldn’t think that the two were going to Mexico just judging by the route?  Even the people the killer and the fall guy met along their journey speculated that the Route 86 Slayer was heading to Mexico, and the feds would surely catch up with him there.  The problem was that they had no idea what he looked like.

He had to act fast; time was running out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE:  The Chaos Theory

     “When the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future.” – Edward Lorenz summarizing the Chaos Theory.

     “Nothing is purely random, every event is at most chaotic.  People have invented the word ‘random’ for describing the behavior of things that they simply can’t comprehend.” – Leslie Dean Brown on the Chaos Theory, or the Butterfly Effect.

∞     ∞     ∞

As his partner slept, he paced the floor of the bedroom, almost hoping he would wake him up.  If he woke up, he would not have to face the reality of what was about to happen, and he could just say he was nervous.  If he continued sleeping, it would present an opportunity for escape.  They had been through so much together, but the time had come to end this game, and he had to do it now.  He was so far away from home, and he missed familiar surroundings.  It would be easy to make it back, but his partner had become more of a liability than an asset, and he could no longer afford to take the risk.

He was not quiet at all, in fact, he was decidedly louder than he would normally be just because he wanted to avoid the whole thing.  He knew that there would be an outburst, and he actually cared about that, to his shock and dismay.  This was the first time in the entire journey that he felt for his partner as a fellow human being.  Almost like he became a brother to him.  This would be emotionally traumatizing, but the end of the journey was coming closer and he needed as little baggage as he could handle.  There was just one thing left for him to do, and he would be ready to go back home.

He loaded the 9mm carefully and kept it wedged inside his jeans at his back.  He decided that binding his partner’s arms first would be easier for him to fight if he needed to, even though his legs were very strong also.  His partner was snoring, drooling, and didn’t even seem to be close to waking up.  He was on his back and his left arm was on his chest, his right arm at his side.  He was right handed, so it would be better to gain control of him that way, so that he would not have as much of an advantage if he woke up.

Using rope, he proceeded to slowly tie his partner’s hands up, wrapping the rope around his wrists slowly, carefully trying not to wake him up.  His partner continued to snore loudly.  Just as he was getting ready to tie the knot, his partner’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at him lazily.  He froze.  His partner looked down at his hands and immediately freed himself, jumping out of bed and pulling the .22 out from under the pillow.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  His partner pointed the .22 at him and yelled.  He wanted to reach for the gun in the back of his pants but didn’t have enough time, so he slowly raised his hands and started to walk backwards, in the hopes he could reach the bathroom and lock himself inside long enough to pull out his own weapon without getting shot at.

“Relax, man, put down the gun,” he said, sheepishly.  How would he talk his way out of this one?  He was caught in the act.  How the fuck did his partner wake up during that but not to all the slamming and banging around he had been doing for the last couple of hours he had been asleep?

“Answer me!”  His partner was shaking and visibly furious, but rightfully so.  “What were you trying to do?  Why were you tying me up?”

He shook his head, not having anything to say, but continuing to inch his way backward toward the bathroom, avoiding eye contact.  “What can I say, I didn’t think you were into this whole thing anymore, so I wanted to give you a little incentive.”

“That’s your idea of incentive?  Tying my motherfucking hands up as I’m sleeping?  So you think I’ll wake up and be like, oh, yeah, I really like you and want to continue on this journey through hell with you.  Yay, sounds like a great idea.”  He cocked the gun and walked right up to him, pointing it directly at his head.  “I should kill you right here, you sick fuck.”

“Who are you calling a sick fuck?  You’ve been right there with me throughout the whole thing, doing exactly what I do alongside me the whole time.  You’re just as sick as I am, faggot,” he continued to back up toward the bathroom, getting closer by the second.

“That was a one-time thing,” he sneered.  “I was drunk and you were just there.”

He shrugged, still backing up toward the bathroom, feeling the carpet tacks in his socks where the linoleum met the rug.  “You’re still a fucking faggot,” he said, smiling and dashing into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.  “I have the other gun, just so you know,” he yelled as he stood between the toilet and the wall, right next to the bathroom door.  “Don’t do anything stupid or you’ll get the cops called.  You ready to talk this out?  Let me hear you put the gun down, and I promise I won’t shoot.”

Silence.

He waited to hear him put down the gun.  “I know you’re out there, and I’m sorry for calling you a faggot.  Put the gun down, and I’ll put this one in the bathtub so you’ll hear it.  Then I’ll open the door and we can talk.”

The sound of metal clanging against the porcelain sink confirmed his partner had put the gun down, so he kept his word and tossed the 9mm into the bathtub.  Then he opened the door slowly.

“Why did you do that to me?”  His partner asked, almost looking like he was going to cry.

He couldn’t blame him really, it was a hard decision to make.  The reason he decided to do it was simply convenience, but how could he explain that to him?  There was no way he could say that and still expect his partner to go along with his final plan.  “I wanted to try something, I just had too much to drink,” he shrugged, glancing down at the floor and then back up into his partner’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Scare me?  I almost killed you.  I still feel like I should.”

He looked over and saw the .22 on the sink.  His partner also looked behind him and saw the 9mm in the bathtub.  It was safe to say that at this point, all trust was lost.  He still had to bait him somehow, and go through with this.  It was his only way out.

“Why are you still standing in there?  Don’t you think it would be easier if we talked about this in another room?  You’re making me nervous, come out of there.”

He hesitated, looking down at his feet, trying to figure out a way to finish what he started.  The only way out was through.  So, he exited the bathroom, leaving the door slightly open.  “Why don’t you get the 9mm and I’ll wait here, so you can feel comfortable talking to me again,” he suggested, desperately trying to find a way to get to his partner before he got to the gun.

His partner took a few steps toward the bathroom and he reached in front of him to grab the doorknob, then slammed it hard against his partner’s head, stunning him before he had a chance to pick up the gun in the bathtub.  As his partner was turning around to fight back, blood gushing from a cut in his temple, he picked up the .22 and pointed it at his partner.  “Don’t do anything stupid because we both know I don’t care about the cops,” he warned.  “Now go over to the bed and sit on the edge.”

His partner obliged, too stunned and afraid to do anything else.  He seemed to accept his fate, and while he was trying to stop the bleeding, he also looked like he was fighting back tears.

“I know what you’re going to do, and I don’t blame you.  It’s been a lot to ask of one person, and I know you are probably frustrated with the whole thing.”

He noticed that the .22 was not loaded.  “What are you fucking talking about?”

His partner smiled up at him as he realized that he now knew he was defenseless.  Jumping up from the edge of the bed on top of him before he had a chance to go for the 9mm, he started pummeling his face.

He knew he had messed up this time, and all he could do was kick, so he did.  He lunged his knee hard into his partner’s crotch and he instantly fell to the side, holding his manhood, screaming in pain.  Blood from his head was all over the place, so much of it that it looked like a murder had been committed.

His front tooth had been cracked by his partner when he was punching him, and he was pretty sure his nose was broken, but he didn’t have time to think about the pain.  He straddled his partner and beat his brow-bone with the emptied .22 until he was knocked out cold.

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:  Mexican Pizza

The months were long and weary, but her healing process was swift.  For that, she was grateful.  After she had dropped him off at the police station, she felt like she had been freed of everything that had led up to this moment.  She knew what would happen, and what they would do to him.  Feelings of guilt were nonexistent, though, because that was the plan all along.  He was her fall guy for a reason.

She decided to go back to the home she once knew with Sarai and Laura.  It had been over a year since she had seen the house, and she was a totally different person at that time.  Even though it was no longer where she lived, she still considered it to be a big part of her life.  It would be interesting to just be close to the place she once called home.

Walking down the street she once lived on brought back feelings of repressed anger, so much so that she felt like it might have been a mistake to do so.  Regardless, she continued down the street, knowing no one knew who she was anymore.  She was a new person, and completely ready to start living her life as a woman.  She was physically and legally a woman now, and a better one than Sarai had ever been, she knew that.  The surgeons in Mexico were amazing, and she had saved so much money on her transformation that she was still very wealthy.

Stopping briefly to look at the home she once knew, she gasped slightly.  It was obviously abandoned.  The weeds were overgrown in the desert landscaping, and it appeared as though no one had lived there since Sarai had been murdered, most likely.  Curiosity got the best of her, so she decided to go to the library to find out what had happened when the police found Sarai.

She remembered the way to the library, and just walked there, soaking in the atmosphere of her old home in Phoenix.  It had been so long, too long, and she wanted to bask in this strange feeling as a new person, enjoying her new life.  She had everything she needed to live her life as a Mexican immigrant; her identification was under the name she had used to pocket all that money Sarai had given her when she was her husband.  This was her final plan, and it was working.

It was like she had been reborn.  In essence, that is exactly what happened.

Nearing the steps to the library, she stopped to ask a man who was smoking a cigarette if he had an extra one.  He obliged and asked her what her name was.

She smiled widely, showing off her new veneers.  “It’s Autumn,” she replied.  “What’s yours?”

∞     ∞     ∞

ROUTE 86 SLAYER APPREHENDED

Associated Press

Authorities apprehended the Route 86 Slayer this morning as he slept outside of a Phoenix Police Station, allegedly drugged.  According to police, the man accused of murdering innocent victims in California is also responsible for two beheadings in the state of Arizona, as well as a murder in Nevada.  Extradition hearings will commence in the near future to determine in what federal prison the Route 86 Slayer will serve out his sentence.  The Route 86 Slayer is being charged with 14 counts of first degree murder in California, two counts of first degree murder in Arizona, and one count of first degree murder in Nevada.  All crimes in all states are punishable by death.