Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller

by Jeff Menapace

Something caught my attention to the right of me. About fifteen feet from the bed, a pair of long, red drapes hung and cloaked what I assumed was some kind of panoramic window. What made these drapes catch my attention at a time when very little else could catch my attention, was that I was sure I saw something move behind them.

  Angela, reading my face, turned and joined me in staring at the drapes, hands still covering her breasts.

  “Now,” she said.

  I looked at her, and then immediately back at the drapes as a man stepped out from behind them. At least I think it was a man. Hell, it had to be; he was huge. The rest of his appearance was far too bizarre to initially comprehend. He donned a full-body get-up; tight to the skin and all black, like something a villain in a comic book might wear. His face was covered by a mask that looked to be fashioned out of the same tight-fitting black material as his body suit. There were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth, but they were covered in circles of black mesh—nothing identifiable to the onlooker; vision, air, and a voice for the one wearing the mask.

  I found myself almost laughing at the flagrant absurdity of it all. I wanted Angela to take me to places as yet untapped, but this…

  Chuckling I said, “What the f—?” but stopped when I saw this freak pull an aluminum bat out from behind his leg. Hardly chuckling now: “What the fuck?”

  As if my words were a starting pistol, the freak let out a deafening battle cry and rocketed towards the bed, bat cocked and ready. I quickly rolled to the left, my right wrist that hadn’t been properly fastened to the cuff breaking free, allowing me out of harm’s way.

  Thank God I never mentioned the fucking thing.

  The bat clanged off the headboard a mere two inches from my head. I rolled off the bed completely and began frantically working on the remaining cuff that held my left wrist. The cuff was held on by the same mechanism you might attach a leather belt, and the pulling I’d just done caused a good deal of tension to accumulate, tightening the bond. I needed to loosen the slack.

  To my right, the freak was regrouping, cautiously circling the bed, securing his grip on the bat. I could hear him breathing, excited. I backed up further against the wall and felt my right hand graze something. I glanced down at a sizeable porcelain lamp on a nightstand.

  He finished circling the bed. We now faced each other, maybe eight feet apart, the bat swaying over his shoulder as though waiting for a pitch.

  Another battle cry and another charge. He vaulted forward, bat cocked. I spun, snatched the lamp by its neck, spun back and whipped it into his oncoming face. It shattered on impact, knocking him backwards, out cold.

  Ignoring all of my mother’s childhood advice, I decided to use my teeth as a tool, spinning back towards the bed and chomping down onto the leather strap that held my wrist captive, hoping to loosen the slack. It worked, and I now had my left hand back.

  Good thing too. The freak was awake and on his feet.

  He’d dropped the bat after I cracked him with the lamp, and for some reason did not attempt to grab it again. There was a good chance he was still on queer street from the lamp and wasn’t thinking properly, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit; the fact that he was no longer wielding the thing gave me hope.

  The freak dove at my waist, shooting both of us backwards, crashing against the wall. Although the impact momentarily took my breath, I was happy the wall was there; it kept me upright and prevented me from landing on my back with his big ass on top.

  With his shoulder driving into my stomach, I felt him reach down to grab the back of my legs so that he could scoop me up and slam me. Fuck that. I immediately took both hands and pushed down onto the back of his head until it was at my knees, preventing him from getting any leverage. I then snaked one of my legs free, and began hammering the bottom of my fist onto the back of his head like a jackhammer. After about five or six of those, he gave up trying to slam me and covered up.

  I snaked my other leg free, clamped both hands around his neck, and drove my knee up into his face with everything I had. It sounded like a football being punted. He dropped instantly.

  I slumped back against the wall. My lungs burned. My body shook. I was certain I was going to puke. And then I felt a frantic pull on one of my ankles.

  I looked down and actually gasped: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The tough fucker was now clamped onto my shin. His fingers groped and clawed my flesh as he tried to climb to his feet.

  I spotted the discarded bat. Picked it up and raised it overhead.

  Although he never looked up, I now suspect the freak realized what was about to happen; he stopped his futile struggle at my legs and seemed to brace himself for the inevitable.

  I could have stopped after the first blow (he went limp immediately), but I didn’t. In retrospect, I can think of many reasons—some reasonable, if not damn well justifiable—as to why I didn’t, but who cares, right?

  I didn’t.

  Over and over again I brought the bat down onto the freak’s masked skull, deforming it with each sickening wallop.

  It was my breath—or lack thereof—that finally stopped me. Realization as to what I’d done soon began filtering into my pool of rage and I instantly flung the bat into the corner where it landed with a definitive clang.

  I looked down at the now lifeless mass at my feet. His body was still moving, but it was involuntary, just a convulsive twitch or two until he was officially a corpse.

  A corpse.

  He was dead. The guy was fucking dead. And I’d killed him. I had killed somebody. This wasn’t just pummeling someone in a street fight. This was murder. Yes, I’d acted in self-defense, but I was excessive and I knew it and the result was still the same. Death—by me.

  What to do? I had to get away. Leave.

  Wait a minute.

  Angela. Where the hell was Angela? My head whipped all over the room. I saw nothing.

  She must still be in the house though, right? After all, this was her house, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave me alone here would she?

  Maybe you’re not alone, I thought. Maybe there are more people in the house. More people like the freak.

  This terrifying prospect stopped me from calling her name and made an immediate exit priority one.

  I quickly gathered my stuff and darted from the room. Gripping the railing, I took the stairs two at a time until I was at the front door, still ajar from when Angela had kicked it open and for a split-second I marveled at how relative time could be. Mere minutes ago I nearly came in my pants when she kicked that door open. Now I feared I might shit them.

  For the second time this evening, I was in my car and speeding away from a barbaric scene I’d committed.

  The Bar

  “So you’re saying you killed the guy?” the bartender asks.

  I take a healthy pull on my whiskey and nod as I swallow.

  The bartender waves a hand in front of my mangled face. “But he didn’t do all that to you…”

  “No.”

  “So who did?”

  I drain my Beam and pour myself another. The trodden boards of Fuck It are now getting soaked. I smile at the bartender, my buzz teetering over the line of drunk, and hold up a finger. “Patience, my friend,” I say.

  I’m happy to see a subtle roll of his eyes. As I’d predicted, he has already started labeling me as a drunken bull-shitter, my injuries the probable result of an excessive beating at the hands of a few douche bags at some other watering hole the night before. And like I said; that’s just fine by me—it’s better if he doesn’t believe. Because everything I just told him was a fucking cake-walk compared to what was in store for me.

  6

  I drove aimlessly until I had a general idea of where I was. Before long, I was on a recognizable route home.

  The severities of the previous hour’s events played on a continuous loop inside my head. I had romanticized committing murder during dark times before, usually drunk, but alwa
ys within the guarded perimeter of my delusional mind. Whether I knew deep down that I was full of shit, I don’t know; it was irrelevant now, wasn’t it? Tonight, the guarded perimeter had been breached—my delusional mind had had its bluff called in a big fucking way, and now it was on the run, desperate to find somewhere to hole up so it could plan its next move.

  The police? No way. I’d had a few run-ins with the police in my day, mostly stupid shit—bar fights, the majority—that concluded with a slap on the wrist or a night in a cell until I sobered up, yet I now looked at the police as an absolute last resort. I had a horrifying fear of prison, permanently warped from the abundance of cable documentaries I’d seen about prison life. I may be able to handle myself in a scrap or two, but I had no delusions of what would happen to a suburban white boy like me if I went to Graterford prison.

  What I needed to do was find Angela. She was the only one who had witnessed the event, and she was the only one who could answer the multitude of questions I had. After all, this whole debacle could have very well been her doing. One minute she’s about to screw me (or so I thought), and the next she’s saying “Now” to some freak in black leather jammies so he could start a swingin’ with a fucking baseball bat.

  Yeah—she definitely had some explaining to do, the crazy bitch. Her desire for sex next to the guy I’d stomped outside the bar should have been one hell of a red flag, but my insistence on a stupid expedition for that virginal relic had made me all but color-blind.

  It was now perfectly clear that finding Angela was the most logical first course of action. Problem was, the clock on my dashboard read five-thirty a.m., and my body was pushed to the limits of exhaustion. Although the suggestion seemed absurd considering recent events, I needed to sleep, if only for a few hours so that I could recharge and regroup. I decided to head home.

  7

  As I put my key into my apartment door, I knew I would be greeted by a pissed-off cat. I had missed his dinner time by almost twelve hours. Inexcusable. Anyone who has ever owned a cat will tell you they like routine. Break that routine, and you can get anything from a 3 a.m. siren in your ear, to a stink-wrapped gift waiting for you on your rug. Fortunately, I did not receive the latter, but I did receive a siren job as I entered my apartment.

  Pele, named after mixed martial arts legend Jose “Pele” Landi-Jons, is all black with yellow eyes. He’s an awesome cat that I’m convinced was a badass panther in a past life.

  I was too tired, dazed, scared, paranoid, (hell, all-of-the-fucking-above) to bend and scoop him up for a cuddle like I normally did when I got home. Good thing too—as late as I was with his dinner, he might have swiped me a good one if I tried.

  Instead I just lumbered into the kitchen with Pele hot on my heels. He immediately leapt onto the kitchen counter and began circling the electric can opener with all the patience of a junkie needing a fix.

  I opened a can of cat food, the whir of the machine a duet with his anxious meows, then plopped the contents into a bowl and lowered it to the floor. In a second, half of his head was in the bowl, devouring with that little growl he sometimes made when he meant business. Ordinarily, this made me smile. Not today.

  I began undressing on the way to my bedroom, clothes tossed and landing where they landed. I needed to sleep; my body begged for it. I would have to begin my search for Angela tomorrow, or should I say, later today. Then I would get some answers. Nothing I could do about it now. What’s done is done.

  (Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, killer.)

  8

  Somehow, I managed to find some sleep. When I woke, there was a heavy weight on my chest that I initially expected to be my old friend anxiety, but turned out to be Pele. He had obviously forgiven me for missing dinner, and was now curled up and sawing wood on my sternum. I hated to wake him, but one more minute and I would have asphyxiated, so I kept nudging him until he reluctantly opened his eyes and nipped at my hand.

  “Come on—off,” I said.

  One more nudge and he took the hint, but not without casting me his best when you least expect it… glare before hopping off the bed.

  My clock read one thirty p.m. I got up and began trudging around my apartment, picking clothes off the floor or out of my hamper that could be worn a second day. I certainly wasn’t going to wear what I had on last night. No blood had sprayed or stained anything (I recommend killing all people in your underwear—very economical), but putting them back on was out of the question. I needed no reminders for what I’d done, thank you.

  I happened upon a T-shirt with no stains that smelled decent, and an old pair of jeans that could go through a shit storm and still pass for acceptable. Dressed, I then entered my den and stood.

  What now? My stomach burbled. It was anxiety, but I did need food. I had all day and night to find Angela as I was not due into work until the next day, so maybe I could figure shit out over lunch. Hunker down somewhere, get my thoughts together, chase my lunch with a pitcher of whiskey and fifty Xanax.

  No. Forget food; I needed to deal with this shit now. I wouldn’t have been able to get anything down my throat anyway. Anything that wasn’t at least 80-proof, that is.

  I went back into my bedroom, scooped up my car keys, wallet, my Yankees hat (not a Yankees fan, or even a baseball fan, but my buddy Paul gave it to me), and then hurried out my apartment.

  As I walked through the outdoor lot of my building, I noticed something resting on the windshield of my car, about thirty yards ahead. I squinted on approach. It looked like someone’s purse. As I got closer, I noted that it was not a purse, but a random piece of black clothing. I picked the material up, fanned it out, and found myself staring at the same mask the freak had been wearing last night.

  “Boo!”

  I spun and nearly lost my balance. Angela stood before me, giggling. She reached out and began petting my cheek as she spoke.

  “Aww… poor baby. Did I scare you?”

  I stared at her blankly while my mind worked for a response. She continued.

  “No early bird special for you, sleepy-head. It’s almost two.”

  Still no capable response on my part. She was acting as if last night’s events were a simple date between the two of us.

  “Calvin? You okay?”

  All I could do was thrust the mask into her chest. She took it and gave the thing a glance of mild interest.

  “You’re lucky I cleaned it before giving it to you,” she said. “It was pretty gross when I took it off.”

  “Giving it to me?” I said. “Why the hell would you give this to me?”

  “Well, seeing as I’ve got an immediate opening, I figured you’d be the perfect candidate,” she said, her tone still pleasant and unassuming, like we were discussing where to go for lunch.

  My head spun. Her words were clear and concise, but I may as well have been deaf for all the sense they were making. She placed the mask back into my hands and, by reflex, I accepted her offering before dropping it a split-second later. Her head dropped with the mask and she eyed it for a moment.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to wear a used one either. We’ll get you fitted for a new one.”

  “Angela,” I began, finally gathering up a fraction of my wits, “I’m pretty sure I killed that guy.”

  “Yes, Calvin, I know,” she said, sarcasm light but there.

  “Did you do it?” I asked.

  “No—you did it.”

  “No, I mean did you do it? Did you set it up? Did you plan it?”

  She gave a sly raise of her eyebrow. “How do you feel?”

  “What?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “How the fuck do you think I feel?”

  She smiled. “You are feeling something though, right?”

  I knew what she was getting at.

  “Yes I am” —my turn with the sarcasm— “however, your method of hands-on therapy seems a bit fucking radical, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I
wouldn’t say,” she replied. “Who am I to say what’s right and wrong? You acted with the most primitive of instincts and temporarily discarded that labyrinth you call a mind.”

  I didn’t respond, but she continued like a professor lecturing a class.

  “We’re animals, Calvin, all of us. What are the drives that shape an animal’s life?”

  I frowned, confused. “Huh?”

  “Eating, sleeping, fucking, and killing. They don’t ask permission; they just do. Do we chastise their behavior?”

  “You can’t be serious. They’re animals. They don’t have morals or the ability to rationalize the way we do.”

  “And where do morals come from? Are you so naïve as to think they are inherent? Hard-wired to us in the womb?”

  “No, but I’m not about to try and teach a fucking lion the pitfalls of killing with impunity.”

  She chuckled at my remark and said: “And yet we share their impulses. Shame.”

  I shook my head. “Bullshit. I’ll give you eating and sleeping and sex, but killing? That’s not a drive. That’s not an impulse. At least not for normal people.”

  “Isn’t it? Or has society buried that impulse so deep throughout the centuries that no amount of conscious digging can unearth it?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever, professor. I just know it’s not an impulse for me.”

  She smirked with a creepy confidence. “Ooooh…liar, liar.”

  I just stared at her. She stared back with her confident smirk. I’m ashamed to admit it, but for a brief moment I began researching her previous inquiry: Was I feeling? Yes, but what exactly was it? Panic? Check. Anxiety? Check. Paranoia? Check. But who governed these feelings? Was the ruler someone who ticked those boxes because he took another man’s life, or were those boxes ticked by a governor bred with a fear of getting caught? A fear of prison? It was disturbing that the answer—at least the one I hoped for; the one about taking a man’s life—did not come so readily. But, Jesus, my actions weren’t born through drive or impulse. They weren’t.