by Mandy White
A further search of the room turned up nothing else of value except for a drawer filled with drugs. There was heroin, measured into tiny plastic bags like the one I’d found in Camille’s room at the White Surf along with a bag of what looked like crack rocks and several prescription bottles with different people’s names on them – containing various barbiturates and some stuff I didn’t recognize. A dark brown bottle rolled into view. The label had a picture of a dog and a cat on it. On closer inspection I identified the contents as animal tranquilizer: Ketamine, A.K.A. ‘Special K’, on the street. I took everything except the crack, stuffing it all into a plastic bag I found on the floor.
* * *
Back at the motel, I considered what I had done. I had killed ‘Diamond’ Vinnie Dimone. His identification had confirmed it. All indications were, Vinnie was not the tall man I had seen in the alley the night I was shooting the marbles. He was definitely not the angry, non-balding man I’d seen storming out of the Dufferin hotel and speeding away in a BMW bound for Malibu.
Vinnie was not a cop, and he was not Camille’s killer. If not Vinnie, then who had killed Camille?
I didn’t feel any remorse for killing an innocent man because Vinnie was far from innocent. He was a filthy drug dealer who may have been supplying her with some of the drugs that would eventually have ended her life.
~ Chapter 13 ~
Hollywood’s Bad Boy
So far I had killed two scumbags, but my sister’s killer was still walking around alive somewhere. With the first two I’d had names to go on but now I was truly grasping at straws. I’d been sure Diamond Vinnie was the cop who abducted her from the White Surf but after meeting and killing the asshole it was pretty clear he had never spent a day in the police academy.
I sat in bed back at my motel, reading Camille’s journal again. There had to be a clue somewhere in those pages. She had written about all of the others; she must have said something I had missed. Something that would lead me to the cop. My eyes welled up once again as I re-read the passages about her being duped into prostitution under the premise that what she was doing would lead to a movie career. She had fucked creepy old men and b-list celebs and never saw a dime of the money.
I remembered the posh penthouse where, as far as I knew, Louie still lay dead in a pool of his own blood (and probably other bodily fluids). How many women had fucked men for money to pay for the lifestyle he had been leading? It was mind-boggling.
One name leapt at me from the page: Dirk Davis. I reached for the tabloids I had found in Camille’s bag. One of them featured an article comparing Davis to Charlie Sheen. As I read it, I shook my head at the idiotic shit they had written. At one point in the comparison between the two so-called ‘Hollywood Bad Boys’, it was determined Dirk Davis beat Sheen hands down when it came to being a troublemaker. It said, Tiger blood? That’s nothing! Dirk has werewolf blood!
The article mentioned the sexual assault charges, which he had beaten but didn’t reveal any of the sordid details of the alleged attacks. According to Camille’s journal, Dirk had done horrific things to women unfortunate enough to find themselves alone in his company. One of those women had been Cammie herself. After re-reading my sister’s account of Dirk’s attack on her, I knew who my next victim would be.
Dirk may not have killed her but Cammie had a score to settle with him.
Getting close to a superstar of Dirk’s caliber might be tricky but I had a few advantages, one of them being Camille’s journal. Another was the fact that I had her face. Cammie’s journal painted a clear picture of where Dirk could be found on any given Saturday night. He liked nightclubs and was a VIP regular in several of the strip bars down on Sunset.
Camille also had a phone number with his name beside it. I decided to try it first. I was winging it, but I’d been winging it ever since my plane had touched down at LAX a little more than a week ago. I honestly didn’t expect Dirk to answer the phone. I didn’t know what I was expecting, to tell the truth, but he picked up on the first ring.
“Dirk.”
“Hi baby,” I whispered.
“Well hello to you too, sweetness. And who’m I talkin’ to?” His Southern drawl sounded as sexy over the phone as it did on screen.
“It’s me. Aurora.”
“Sorry babe, drawin’ a blank. You hot?”
“Ooh yeah, I’m fucking hot. And blonde. You might not remember but you gave me the best assfucking of my life.”
There was a pause.
“Ya gotta narrow it down a little more than that. I’m a busy man.”
“Oh, you’ll remember when you see me. And honey, you DO want to see me, I guarantee it. I have a present for you.”
“Oh?”
“I have a friend who’s dying to meet you. She’s real freaky and says she will do things even you couldn’t imagine. I made her a bet that she couldn’t out-kink you. I told her you were the kinkiest dude I’d ever met and she didn’t believe me.”
“Ain’t nobody freakier than me. You know that if you’ve met me. If I’ve done you and you’re a-comin’ back for more, then you’re a bit of a freak yourself.”
“You have no idea,” I said with absolute honesty.
“Why don’t you bring your friend and meet me tonight? I’m in the mood for a little dirty.”
“Where you going to be?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
It was too easy! I couldn’t believe my good luck. I gave him the room number of the hotel I had booked myself into that morning using Camille’s fake identification. I had planned to spend a couple of nights in the neighborhood where Dirk was known to hang out and then go hunting; one nightclub after another if necessary. As it turned out, hunting would not be necessary. The prey was walking right into my trap, even though I hadn’t intentionally laid a trap.
I had a couple of hours to prepare for his arrival, so I dashed out to pick up a few supplies.
* * *
Dirk arrived on time, eyeing me up with a lewd grin as he sauntered into the room.
“I remember you now. Back for another ride, eh?”
I nodded as I pushed him toward the bed.
Dirk smirked.
“Baby likes to play a little rough?” he taunted.
“Sure. Why not?” I purred.
I continued to back him toward the bed, letting him reach around behind me and run his hand over my ass, but stopped him before he managed to touch the front of my crotch.
“Where’s your friend? In the shitter?”
“No. But she’ll be there pretty soon.” I slid his shirt up to his neck, exposing his smooth, well-toned chest and abdomen. It was almost a shame to mar such a perfect surface. Almost.
I leaned forward and ran my tongue up his breastbone and across his pectorals, teasing first one nipple, then the other. His hands groped their way toward my chest, seized my bustier inches from where I had tucked the Beretta out of sight, and attempted to yank my top down.
It’s go time. Now or never.
I pulled his shirt up over his face, forcing him to raise his arms. Blinded with his arms over his head, he was easy to throw off balance. I shoved him hard, toppling him backward onto the bed. Before he could recover I pounced on him, driving my knee into his balls and clicking the handcuffs onto one of his wrists.
“You fu-” he sputtered, struggling to free his face from the shirt.
When he finally worked his head free, he found himself staring into the barrel of my gun.
“Say hello to my little friend,” I snarled.
I would have burst out laughing at the cheesy line if I hadn’t been preoccupied with forcing Dirk Dickhead onto his front and locking his hands together behind his back.
Dirk bucked and thrashed, trying to throw me off. I jammed the gun into the back of his neck.
“Stay still or you’re Christopher fucking Reeve. You’ll be rolling down the red carpet in diapers.”
That subdued him somewhat but he continued to sputte
r profanity into the bedspread. I brought the butt of the gun down on the side of his face, opening a gash across his handsome cheek with a satisfying crunch. Blood gushed from his mouth and he spat out a broken tooth.
I’d anticipated this one would be a fighter, and was ready with some men’s ties I’d picked up on my last-minute shopping trip. One of them I had already tied in a noose, which I used to tether his head to the frame at the side of the bed. I pulled his pants down and used his belt to bind his knees together. The second tie I used to lash his belt to the bed frame on the other side of the bed. A strip of duct tape over his mouth and he was ready.
Dirk was bound crosswise to the bed, tethered at the neck and knees like an animal ready for slaughter. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he was putty in my hands. All I had to do was lift his arms each time he resisted and the pain in his shoulders forced him back into submission.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Hollywood’s biggest asshole now lay face down across the bed, bare-assed and helpless, about to become an even bigger asshole. I wished I could take a picture of him and sell it to the tabloids for a million bucks.
I laughed. “Well, douchebag, what should we do first? My friend mentioned how much she wanted to fuck you up the ass. Maybe we should start there.”
He renewed his struggles but only succeeded in sliding his hips further off the edge and tightening the noose around his neck.
“You like the autoerotic asphyxia thing? Keep struggling and you’ll get it,” I told him. “It would make a great headline in the tabloids.”
I grabbed a pillow from the bed to muffle the shot, in case the noise from the television wasn’t quite enough. I had chosen a Western with plenty of blazing guns on the movie channel to help with the sound effects. I placed the barrel of the gun at the entrance to his ass.
“Looks like my friend is in the shitter now, dickhead. Time for you to get penetrated.”
I fired one shot, directly up his ass.
“This is for Camille and Lucille and all the other girls whose lives you ruined.”
Muffled by the duct tape, his screams sounded like, “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”
“I knew you’d like it,” I told him.
He thrashed and fought with renewed fury, nearly upsetting the bed in the process. The noose around his neck grew tighter the more he struggled. His eyes bulged and his face flushed about fifty shades of purple. I freed him from the bed so he wouldn’t choke to death and let him flail his way onto the floor.
Still bound at the hands and knees, he looked like he was doing the Worm. I broke out in giggles at the sight of him. It reminded me of a scene from Nathan Tackett’s THE, a satirical horror novel I’d read, in which a guy was nearly eaten alive by a demonic Snuggie.
I stood and watched him for a moment, analyzing the way it made me feel. I enjoyed seeing him suffer, after reading about the horrible things he had done to Camille and all those other women. I felt justified in administering his punishment. He deserved it. He was a brutal, sadistic person.
So what did that make me? Was I some kind of hero for doing what I’d just done? My actions were every bit as sadistic as his.
No. I wasn’t. I was ruthless but not as sadistic as Dirk. There was a difference. He preyed on the vulnerable and tortured them for his own sick sexual gratification. I was simply evening the score for the ones who couldn’t.
For the ones who were no longer alive.
It would take a long time for him to die from a gunshot to the ass. It would be a slow and agonizing death, too. I wished I could leave him like that and let him suffer but it was too risky. There was a chance he would be found and get medical attention in time. If he survived he would be able to identify his assailant – me. I could not leave until Dirk was dead.
This one would make the front page of every newspaper and tabloid, considering his celebrity status. I would have to make it good.
I used my foot to flip him over onto his back.
This would be my masterpiece. With Dirk subdued and rapidly going into shock, he was a blank canvas and I was the artist.
I inserted the blade of my knife into his trachea, careful not to touch the jugular veins that throbbed on either side. I dug around until I reached his larynx and destroyed it. I tore the tape from his mouth – he no longer needed a gag. He tried to scream but it came out as a wheezy whistling sound.
“Time to play Operation, Dirk,” I told him. “It takes a very steady hand…”
Starting just below his navel, I made two shallow incisions through the skin of his belly, first vertically, then horizontally. The slices intersected to form a large cross in the center of his abdomen. I pulled the skin back at the corners, exposing the bloody grayish sausage links underneath. The bullet I’d fired up his ass had traveled through his abdomen and exited just below his rib cage. It had missed his heart and lungs but caused enough damage on the way through that he was now hemorrhaging internally from multiple wounds. He lay in a puddle of his own fluids as blood and shit oozed from his ruined rectum. I wished I had thought to bring a wine bottle so I could shove it up there and give it a kick.
“How’s it feel to have your asshole torn up?” I asked him. It was an honest question, even though I had no desire to experience it for myself.
He answered with more whistly non-screams.
“Yeah, that’s about how I thought it would feel. How do you think those girls liked it?”
I began pulling the strands of intestine from his belly. There was a lot of it. The human body had approximately twenty feet of small intestine – plenty of raw material, pardon the pun.
After pulling all twenty-odd feet of guts out of his belly, I draped it in a loop around his neck and then flung it casually over his shoulder like a fashionable feather boa. The next loop I fed down his throat and pulled out of the opening in his neck. I pulled the loop through the hole as far as I could, then gave it a decorative twist and slung it over his head.
Dirk was still alive but far beyond the point of struggling.
It was time to add the final touches to my masterpiece. I sliced his nipples from his chest and shoved them in his mouth. Maintaining consistency in each killing was vital if I wanted Camille’s killer to be blamed for each murder I committed.
That was exactly my intention. The nipples were something he did and I was just copying for the sake of deception. Removing the cock and balls, well that was my own little invention. Emasculating a guy like Dirk felt right. A waste of skin like him did not deserve to have perfectly functioning male genitalia when there were nice guys out there who had to do without. What right did he have to be born with a penis and then use it to hurt people? It just wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fucking fair.
When I finished with Dirk I stepped back to admire my masterpiece. It was my best work yet. The head of his cock peeked out from between his lips, like a shy turtle poking its head out of its shell. His eyeballs stared flatly at me from slits I had cut in the flesh of his tanned, muscular chest just above his missing nipples. He looked like a perverted Picasso come to life, except he was dead… almost.
The best part of my masterpiece had to be the eyes. All four of them. Two newly created ones in his chest and two in his head. After removing the eyes from his head I hadn’t let those eye sockets remain empty – oh, no. They were full.
Dirk stared back at me with two eyes in his chest and a bloody testicle stuffed into each of his eye sockets.
He was bleeding to death but somehow still alive… just barely. I drove my knife into his heart to stop it from beating once and for all before I left. I needed to see him dead so he wouldn’t haunt me in my dreams.
~ Chapter 14 ~
Dead End
Hollywood Hunk Feeder’s Latest Victim.
The headline screamed up at me from the morning edition of the LA Times. I scanned the front page article then tossed the paper aside in disgust. “Victim” was what they called him. They made no mention of all the women he had vi
ctimized. Some were little more than children – starstruck teenagers enthralled at being in the presence of what they mistook for greatness. Being one of Hollywood’s hottest leading men apparently gave the scumbag license to abuse women without fear of consequences.
I had researched my victim while making preparations to take him and what I had learned was revolting. Dirk Davis was not a nice person at all. I already knew this from what I’d read in Cammie’s journal but one didn’t need to look far to learn more about the sick son-of-a-bitch.
It seemed Dirk had some nasty fetishes that he indulged with any woman unlucky enough to find herself in his company on a one-on-one basis. His sick little sex games resulted in permanent scars for his victims, both of a mental and of a physical nature. A handful of Dirk’s victims came forward and tried to press charges against him, with shocking tales of the sadistic things the Tinseltown bad boy had done to them.
Roofie rapes were his standard M.O. but he hadn’t been satisfied with just having sex with them. The ones who remembered their ordeals and had the courage to talk told tales of horror. They experienced rape with foreign objects, cigar burns and mutilations to the most sensitive parts of the body, the genitalia in particular. One 18-year-old victim emerged from a date with Dirk with her clitoris burned pretty much clean off by a cigar. Others suffered involuntary piercings of the nipples and labia, through which he would insert random objects such as pencils, key rings and whatever else he happened to have handy.
Victims with the courage to testify were torn apart in court by Dirk’s lawyers. A celebrity with his kind of cash and status had no trouble assembling a ‘dream team’ of legal defense that made OJ’s team look like a pack of baboons. After discrediting and reducing to tears one victim after another, Dirk walked away a free man every time. He didn’t pay a dime of settlement to any of his accusers. His victims’ lives were ruined after having endured what they did at Dirk’s hands and then getting mentally raped again by his dicksnot lawyers.