by A. R. Braun
“Welcome to dating in the new millennium.”
Lyle’s mind lurched. He sat nonplussed, shocked, OUTRAGED. I should kill her, just pound her face in. But Lyle wasn’t the type to wail on women. His hand trembled so much he dropped his lime soda. It splashed and fizzed on the tan carpeting.
Cali regarded him intently. “Ready for a Coke now? You don’t seem to be able to handle your Sun Drop, whitey.”
All Lyle could do was nod. He didn’t have the energy or the inclination to swallow the bite of pizza he’d taken before she’d dropped the bomb.
“You know where the fridge is,” she added. “Get it yourself.”
Lyle stumbled into the kitchen and spat the pizza into the garbage can. Cali’s high-pitched laughter rang out from the living room. His eyes scanned her small kitchen—no more than a closet, really—finally finding her icebox. He yanked it open and . . .
. . . started, gazing into childlike eyes.
The doll that belonged to Cali’s daughter sat on a rack of the fridge. Her little Barbie head stared at him with wide eyes, next to the milk and the soda cans, sharing the space with bacon, eggs, bologna, and celery slices.
Why’s her daughter’s doll in the fridge, and where is she?
A voice from behind him: “Say hi to Kiara’s B.F.F. It’s all that’s left of her. I couldn’t get along with her, and I couldn’t bear losing her, so I . . . took care of it.”
Something cold touched his spine and raised his gooseflesh. Feeling faint, he turned around just in time to see her swing the aluminum baseball bat before everything faded to black.
***
To say that Lyle woke with a headache would’ve been an understatement. The late Gene Krupa might as well have been pounding away at his cranium. Tied to a chair with rope, Lyle panicked inside. He wasn’t going anywhere, or getting out in case of a fire . . . or worse.
Cali sang a tune he didn’t recognize and danced around him, clad in only her underwear and a feather boa. “Is this what you want?” she sang. He wondered if she’d made up the song. “Is this what you want?”
She’d tied him so tight there was no room to move. She’d stripped him; all he had on was underwear. He struggled in vain against the ropes. What would’ve been an erotic moment was shot to hell when he remembered what she’d said and done earlier. His head throbbed on the left side, and Lyle knew the spot where she’d clubbed him would leave a knot. His double vision settled into single.
She removed her panties, climbed onto the chair, her knees on his forearms, and lowered her crotch. That bittersweet stink, the loveliest of scents, hit him like a ton of bricks. Quickly, she climbed off of him. Like he cared if she was a tease. Not now.
Lyle couldn’t take any more. “You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you!”
“You’re in no position to do that,” she sang. Cali turned around and rubbed her ass on his chest. “You’re in no position to do that.” She whispered in a sultry manner, “Remember what I said about a guy’s dick rotting off when he only wants a piece of ass?
“It can also be cut off.” She held up a butcher knife. “So. Don’t. Push. Me.”
Lyle shook his head violently to let her know he wouldn’t.
With that, he yelled for help as loudly as he could. She frowned, jumped down, ripped off a couple long strips of duct tape, and bit them in two, then covered his mouth and secured them around the back of his head. “My ex left his tape over here. Good to know it’ll go to excellent use.”
With every fiber of his being, he wished he’d listened to his father.
If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.
More instruction he’d ignored poured into his head as he threw up underneath the duct tape. He was forced to swallow it. Teachings from friends and family meant to help him avoid the situation he was in right now made his mind race.
Careful what you wish for. You just might get it.
Vomit came up again, dribbled back down his throat, came up again, went back down.
She bent down to look him in the eye. “This is where I cut out. I’m moving to Louisiana and changing my name, my hair color, the length, and I’m gonna get a nose job. I’m gonna get away with what I’ve done, and you’ll languish in this hot apartment with the air conditioner turned off, starve, and choke to death on your own puke.” She laughed. “You’ll wish you’d not been born.” She slapped him, the sting on his left cheek barely hurting him compared to his head. “For once I got back at one of you pricks.
“You rot in hell!” she added.
She walked into the bedroom, pretty as you please, and came back five minutes later. Cali had changed into pink sweats with white stripes on the sides and a purple Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. She carried luggage on rollers.
Cali got in his face. “Buh-bye!”
“Who dumped who?” She sang before she slammed the door and locked it. “Who dumped who?”
***
Lyle had to take action or he’d die a nasty death. He focused. If he used all his strength, he could inch the chair toward the door and perhaps turn the knob and unlock it with his teeth, the kind of handle that was long and unlatched easily. He pushed his tongue at the sticky tape, moving it back and forth. Lyle winced from the puke stuck to it.
This was going to take a long time. The tape and chair legs barely moved, but he managed some motion.
I’ve got to pull this off. I’m not going to die like this just because that bitch is crazy. I’m going to see her brought to justice. And HIV, well, look at Magic Johnson. It didn’t kill him.
He put everything he had into it. Still, little was achieved.
Bit by bit. Baby steps.
Lyle moved a few feet, then rested, and again used every ounce of his energy. The more he struggled, the more he wanted to avenge himself of what Cali had done to him instead of letting the police handle it. He knew this was morally wrong, but he couldn’t get it out of his head.
Or the vision of Cali’s mutilated body.
Good God, am I losing my mind?
The predicament he’d been placed in took more precedence, though. After what seemed like forever, he made some headway, though he couldn’t move the duct tape. Lyle leaned over and head-butted the long doorknob, which caused it to unlock because of its weakness. He leaned forward and gripped the long handle in his teeth, then pulled.
It clicked open.
Lyle still couldn’t move his arms; they were pinned with the rope. Therefore, he yanked the doorknob back farther, then stuck his head in the opening and screamed for help underneath the duct tape, the muted shriek not carrying well. It took about five minutes before a middle-aged neighbor walked by the door and found him. Her thin frame shook and her eyes goggled, her hands flinching upward to tug at her blond-gray hair. With trembling hands, she untied the ropes from his arms and legs. More neighbors soon joined her, not able to help giving wide-eyed stares, even after he explained what had happened. He uttered a grateful thanks and told them to call the cops.
***
The police questioned the neighbors and called in the FBI when they found the child’s body legs-up in the toilet. Lyle was taken downtown and questioned, then advised to get checked for HIV in case the psychopath had been lying, which he agreed to do the next day at the health department. Lyle hadn’t held anything back during police questioning, wanting the nut to be brought to justice for what she’d done to her daughter.
Yet the vengeful thoughts wouldn’t leave his head. They intensified, actually.
When he arrived home, Lyle remembered that Cali had added him on Placebook. She didn’t use her real name, but “Horror Goddess,” with her picture Photoshopped to look possessed like Regan Teresa MacNeil. He brought up the social network on his computer, pulled up his page, and clicked on Cali’s link; he copied down her Website address on a piece of paper in case she dropped him and blocked him. He turned the computer off.
The thoughts of vengeance not only kept popping into his head, but also nagged
him. Lyle tried to resist, sweating bullets, and called Dan the hippy, also a computer genius. Before bedtime, Dan had hacked Cali’s Facebook page.
Let’s see how she likes getting a virus.
Racing thoughts, revenge, Cali’s corpse, blood everywhere, rinse and repeat. He cried out as he tried to resist, knowing he’d never be able to.
I think I’ve gone crazy.
After the HIV test tomorrow, it just might be time for a road trip in his Optima.
***
In the morning, he got the test and had been crushed when they’d told him it would take six months to get the results. Upon arriving home, Lyle took a few deep breaths, tried to calm himself down, and said, sotto voce:
“Lyle, be sane. Let the FBI handle it and stay out of their way.”
But why did he hyperventilate, and why was he speaking of himself in the third person?
Nevertheless, he booked an appointment with a shrink and decided to let the law handle Cali.
***
Six months later, the authorities hadn’t found Cali, and the test came back positive for HIV.
That tore it. Lyle gassed up and headed to Louisiana. The thoughts of revenge had never left his mind, and he’d cancelled the appointment with the shrink. He’d always been too proud to admit to weakness. Confessing to mental illness was giving up the steering wheel, and he wasn’t having it.
Lyle had borrowed Terry’s .30-06 rifle and hunting knife, complete with a curved blade and serrated edges, and he’d bought plenty of duct tape. If she wanted to play that kind of game, he could do that.
He listened to news radio all the way down. The FBI were all over New Orleans, but didn’t know what city or town Cali dwelt in and didn’t have any leads. There was a lot of speculation that when they caught her, the D.A. would call for the death penalty, but it remained to be seen.
Lyle had been watching Cali’s Placebook page diligently, though he couldn’t pick up on the vague hints.
He drove down B9-80, stopping for a rest after a few hours, a chance to stretch and have a meal. The roadside attractions offered a wide variety of food and drink—like corn dogs, frozen custard, and lemon shake-ups—which he indulged in.
He couldn’t take his mind off the lovely destroyer, though.
He brought up his Placebook app on his iPhone and viewed her page. Finally, an obvious clue he could work with: on her status, she’d said something about getting a job at a bar & grill called Yo Mama’s on Bourbon Street. When he did an Internet search on his phone, Wikipedia came up first, telling him the famous street spanned the length of the French Quarter in New Orleans.
Ba-bam! I’ve got you, beeotch.
After getting on I-10 East after I-55, he took a bathroom break, then got going again.
Just as rubber butt set in so badly he couldn’t stand it, he reached New Orleans. The skyscrapers took his breath away; he’d gotten too used to small-town life. Lyle rolled down the windows, for it was warm, unlike in Illinois. He brought up Yahoo! Travel on his iPhone, found the La Quinta Hotel was downtown, followed GPS to Camp Street, checked in, and lay down, trying to get some sleep.
He had a job to do in the morning.
His mind raced with revenge, blood, death. His will to destroy her frightened him, but thrilled him at the same time.
Somebody catch me before I become what I’m chasing.
***
Lyle was so exhausted he didn’t get up till the crack of 1:00 p.m.
Maybe I was more tired than I thought.
Did he really want to go through with this? Why not just tell the FBI where she was so they could storm in and nab her?
Because she gave me HIV.
Lyle stuffed the blade into his khaki shorts and set the rifle in the trunk. He visited a wig store and bought a pair of sunglasses. Lyle wasn’t going to give her the chance to flee. He found a fake mustache at a gag store, bought some rope, rubber gloves, and a chair. He placed them in the trunk, then headed to Yo Mama’s.
He made his stellar entrance at the bar at 2:00 p.m., looking around discreetly for a woman with Cali’s build, since she’d said she was going to change her appearance. The place sported a fun atmosphere, having a jukebox and offering video poker. NBA games played on the big screen TVs. He ordered a cold beer from the stacked blond woman who obviously wasn’t Cali—the latter had a piss-poor rack, but had the nerve to complain about penis size—and decided he’d sip, watch, and wait.
Or was it Cali? He remembered what she’d said about a disguise.
No, it hadn’t been her. Cali had a voice that sounded slightly retarded, and this woman’s had been chirpy.
The voice she can’t fake.
Lyle stayed that way till evening, ordering a few more beers and not seeing anyone with her body type. At 6:00, he ate a delectable supper, a burger with blue cheese and mushrooms.
As he finished his fries, a woman strutted up to him with Cali’s body type. She’d gotten a nose job; had long red hair; and lips enlarged with Botox—she’d even gotten a boob job—but he’d know that backward-sounding voice anywhere.
“Can I get you another beer, handsome?”
“You sure can.” Lyle was smart enough to change his voice, making it low and gruff, almost a growl.
She looked him over for a few brutal moments before turning to leave, then stopped.
Oh, shit! She recognized me.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses at night?” She giggled. “You the modern-day Corey Hart?”
He laughed, a throaty, wheezy sound he’d previously thought himself incapable of. “My future’s so bright, I’ve gotta wear shades, darlin.’ ”
At this, she chuckled. “I know, right?” She fluttered away.
Now I know it’s her.
Cali, as well as many other young women today, was quite fond of saying “I know, right?”
***
Lyle flirted with the baby killer all night. When her shift ended at 2:00 a.m., he followed her out. She looked here and there as she strutted along, then whipped out her keys.
Lyle picked up his pace, glanced here and there himself, and when Cali walked by his car, he rushed up and put her in a chokehold. He placed his hand over her mouth.
“Point of no return, bitch.”
He’d left the right door that faced the sidewalk unlocked for just this scenario. He yanked it open and shoved her in. She screamed for help, so he took a moment to reach for the duct tape.
Until she kicked him in the stomach.
“Fuck it.” Lyle threw a knockout punch.
***
In his hotel room, Lyle smoked cigarette after cigarette as he waited for Cali to come out of it. He’d tied her to the chair, as planned. His hunting knife was stuffed into its sheath in his khaki pocket, but he held the .30-06 in the other hand.
It was a freezing fall evening, and Lyle had opened all the windows. She deserved to shiver.
After he put the smoke out in the ash tray and lay the gun down on the coffee table, he unzipped his fly and took a piss in the rusted toilet next to the rat turds in the bathroom. He really had to go after all those beers.
Cali didn’t seem to want to come to consciousness, so he offered her some help. He walked back into the living room and belched loudly in her face.
Her eyes fluttered, and she sat up straight, wide-eyed.
But she didn’t scream.
He’d tied the duct tape over her mouth, one piece over another, like she’d done to him. He took off his sunglasses, wig, and fake mustache.
After shaking her head quickly, she gagged a couple of times underneath the tape and trembled. Recognition flashed in her eyes, or was that pure terror?
“Well, hello, sleepyhead. Looks like the tables have turned.”
He’d stripped Cali down to her underwear, as she’d done to him. Her milky-white skin was inviting, but there’d be no sex tonight, not with the bitch that had given him AIDS.
“That’s what’s wrong with women like you, Cal
i. You think you can get away with murder because you’re beautiful on the outside. But on the inside, you’re ugly as sin.
“It’s time you paid for your crimes.”
She “Mmm-mm’d!” behind the tape, trying to shout something.
Lyle turned around and got in her face, their noses touching. “Now there isn’t really anything to say. I know what you did, and everything a person does comes back on them, as you’re now finding out.”
She shook her head vehemently. She screamed behind the gag, but it was muffled, and Lyle decided it was time to yank off the duct tape. The neighbors in the room to his left were apparently having a party, and the young couple in the room to his right were fucking like dogs. Who would hear her?
He ripped the tape off stealthily, like a Band-Aid from a wound.
She shrieked like the damned. After a spell, it seemed she’d gotten it out of her system, and she gulped down a few deep breaths. “You’ve got the wrong woman! My name’s not Cali! It’s Trish, and I never met you before tonight.”
“Cut the bullshit!” Lyle slapped her with all he had, and her head whipped to the side as she fell silent, quivering like a puppy left out in below zero weather.
“I’m going to avenge your innocent daughter’s death, and since I’m gonna die of AIDS anyway, thanks to you, I don’t fear prison.” He snickered. “You’re going to die tonight.”
She grew hysterical. “No, no, no, no! You’ve got the wrong girl . . . please.” She gagged, and a stream of greenish-yellow puke sprayed from her mouth.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Projectile vomiting? “Being a bad girl? All right.” Lyle took out the knife and held it close to her face. “Our legal system lets crooks like you get away with murder, but I’m the judge, jury, and executioner tonight. Believe it.”
He rammed the blade into her heart, shoving it in as far as it would go. Warm blood covered his hand and arm. Cali uttered a death rattle, and her head slumped to the side. He put his hand over her puke-stained mouth; indeed, she’d quit breathing.
Thunder struck from behind him. As Lyle turned, he noticed the FBI had kicked his door down. “Freeze!” an agent said. “Down on the ground!”