Sex and Murder

by Douglas Allen Rhodes

  Now, don’t misunderstand the situation. It’s not as if I’d drawn her to me with my looks; I’m not bad but I’m no Brad Pitt. A force more seductive than sex, more powerful than personality, one more vital than virile, drew her. She sensed new money.

  “Hi there,” she purred, placing a cigarette between her lips. “Got a light?”

  “No,” I said, “but I’ll get one.”

  I held my hand up and watched the bartender scramble over to wait on me.

  “Some matches, and another one of these,” I pointed to my drink, “oh, and also….”

  I turned back to the huntress. “What are you drinking?”

  “Bombay Sapphire Gin, up, with a twist.”

  “And a martini.” I slipped him a hundred and took the matches he’d produced.

  My gaze focused on my guest, and her gaze fixed on mine. Her eyes sparkled for a moment as I passed the money to the bartender. I struck a match and lit her smoke.

  She inhaled and smiled. “So, I’ve never seen you here before. Are you in town on business?” she fished, feeling out her prospects.

  “Actually, I live upstate a little, but this is my first time here.” I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m Robert.”

  She took my hand. “Eve.”

  “So tell me, Eve,” I began as our drinks arrived, “are you in the habit of hitting on the new guys?”

  “Only those I’m thinking of fucking,” she replied, sliding her hand along my leg to my crotch. “Why, am I bothering you?”

  “Not too much.” I smiled. “But what about the guy you came with?” My turn to fish. I needed a very select sort of catch that night.

  “No guy tonight, just my girlfriend, Kim.” She nodded towards the dance floor. A gorgeous little blonde seduced a group of admirers.

  “What say you grab her and we get out of here, then?”

  For a second, I thought that my question might throw her, but she never missed a beat. She must have heard that request before. She answered like a pro.

  “What’s the matter,” she pouted, “aren’t I good enough for you?”

  “Oh, no, you’re good enough for me. But believe me,” I said, locking eyes with her meaningfully, “I’m good enough to be what both of you are looking for.”

  She pulled back a little and studied my face, measuring me up. She seemed to find what she looked for, and we smiled in mutual understanding.

  “You wait right here,” she said, giving my groin a playful squeeze. “I’ll get my girlfriend.”

  While she left to tell Kim about me and their new plans, I waved down the bartender.

  “Yes, sir?”

  I motioned for him to lean closer. “Who can I talk to about getting something heavier?”

  For a second he looked confused, then understanding stole over his features. “Hold on just a minute, and I’ll introduce you to Jake.”

  I slipped him another Franklin, and he hurried off to find the dealer. Eve returned, a slightly shorter, but equally sexy Kim in tow.

  “Evey tells me you’ve got quite a night planned for us.” Kim giggled. “I’m Kim.”

  She rubbed close up against me, her left hand tracing little circles on my chest.

  “Hi, Kim. I’m Robert.” I pulled out my keys and handed them to her. “Why don’t you and Eve wait for me outside while I take care of a little business. It’s the black Hummer.”

  They both adopted pouty faces.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right along.”

  I patted Kim affectionately on the ass and sent the girls on their way. My bartender appeared, a small, wiry-looking Italian guy—who I took to be Jake—following close behind.

  After very short introductions, Jake ushered me outside to his Mercedes. I bought about an ounce of cocaine and a pound of kine buds. The coke set me back a grand and the pot about twenty-five hundred. I thanked him and secured his cell phone number; after all, even a serial killer needs a reliable dealer. I told him I’d be getting a hold of him in a day or two, and he laughed, making some lame-ass joke about women or some such. I didn’t really pay too much attention. He started back to the club, and I walked to my Hummer.

  The girls sat inside, Eve in the front seat, Kim in the back. I tossed Eve the coke as I got in. I’ve always said that there are only three things necessary for getting a gorgeous chick. I call them the three Cs: car, cash, and cocaine. The size of Eve’s eyes and the width of her smile as she caught the baggy told me that—at least with these two—I was right. I shifted the Hummer into gear and drove out of the club’s parking lot. Eve and Kim made out lines on a small mirror Kim had produced from her purse.

  I had a great ride home. By the time we reached my place we’d smoked three phat joints, done far too much coke—Kim topless, Eve naked. Now we had a celebration.

  Both girls voiced their approval of my house as the three of us crawled out of the Hummer. Placing an arm around each of my victims, I led them inside and down to the sex room.

  Eve laughed when she saw it, a deep, lusty laugh. Kim applauded, whistled, then wiggled out of her skirt and G-string. I stripped down as well, and we began to play with each other, every now and then pausing to do lines off of each other’s bodies.

  The two of them looked like centerfolds, their bodies masterpieces of surgery and heredity. Neither one paid the other any mind as they concentrated their full attention on me.

  We fucked for hours before I killed them, playing a variety of games. I experimented on them with a selection of toys but was unable to persuade the girls to fuck each other. Eventually, we took a break to snort some coke and smoke a joint.

  The joint finished, I took Kim by the hand and told her to come with me. Eve did her pouty face and asked why she couldn’t come along.

  “It’s a new game we’re going to play,” I answered conspiratorially. “I’ll be right back, so keep ready for me.”

  I led Kim a short way down the hall to the next door and gestured for her to enter.

  “Oooh,” she said, facing me as she twisted the doorknob behind her. “I get the special treatment, huh?”

  She laughed at her little joke and pushed the door open with her ass, pulling me after her. Her hand fell from mine, and she turned to see what secret delights this new chamber would hold. I shut the door and flipped its bolt lock into place. The loud thunk caused Kim to jump with nerves. She whipped back around to face me, eyes wide with confusion.

  “What the hell is this stuff?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

  I smiled. “I think you know.”

  Confusion fled her face, instantly replaced by terror. She made a desperate attempt to get around me. I punched her in the face, knocking her to the floor. Screaming, she scrambled up and tried to get away from me, but I was already upon her. I snatched a good handful of her long, straight hair and, using it as a leash, I dragged her over to the rack and bashed her head into its thick, oaken slab.

  That hit did the trick. Her sculpted nose shattered, and blood sprayed onto the rack. She went limp beneath my grasp, sobbing. With a brutal yank, I hoisted her onto the rack and strapped her in. She never fought me as I fastened her restraints; she simply lay still, staring petrified at the man she’d been trying so hard to please just minutes before. To be honest, I doubt she could have moved even if she’d wanted to.

  I grabbed the crank of the rack and tautened her body. This new sensation, a horror I’m sure she’d never dreamt of feeling, launched her into a renewed bout of screaming. The walls of the chamber echoed with her wails, each growing more frantic, more crazed than the last. I stretched her body past the breaking point.

  Joints wrenched apart, bones cracked, and Kim cried out in purest agony, but not one sound could escape the room. Like some macabre studio, a recording room of death, acoustic tiling and airtight seals lined the torture chamber. Right next door, her friend lay happy, with no idea that Kim was being slowly murdered one wall away.

  I plugged in the generator and turned the voltage knob
to a setting just below the output of a wall socket. Placing alligator clips on Kim’s earlobes, I sent a steady current of excruciating but non-lethal electricity through her face. The juice stole her voice, so I used the opportunity to slip out of the room.

  When I walked back into the sex room, I was ready for Eve.

  She smiled warmly. “Oooh,” she cooed. “You saved some for me.”

  I didn’t speak, though I did growl. I leapt onto the bed. Picking up two sets of handcuffs from the night table, I lashed her wrists to the head posts. She made some inane musing about bondage, but I wasn’t really listening. My mind was immersed in images of the woman in the room next door, broken, bleeding, and frying to death on the inside while her best friend fucked her killer.

  I like to think that Kim knew what was happening, but I honestly don’t know if she did or not—I never asked her.

  Like a man possessed, I assaulted Eve, grabbing her head, my one hand on her chin and my other at the base of her skull. Her eyes cleared with realization, and I sneered into them as I spun her head too far around. Her body shook once and lay still.

  I jumped from the bed and ran to the torture chamber. Kim shook violently, her body’s nervous system receiving all the wrong impulses. I cranked the knob to full voltage. Her body arched high off the table. The smell of ozone and charred flesh filled my senses. Her hair caught fire, and her eyeballs shot from their sockets to dance at the end of rapidly disintegrating nerves, eventually falling—black and crisp—to the table surface.

  I let the electrocution continue for five more minutes before I shut the power off. Smoke rose from the charbroiled meat that had once been Kim.

  Deciding to leave clean up for the morning, I walked upstairs, showered, and went to bed.

  Like a baby, I slept.

  * * * *

  I spent most of the next day taking care of the previous night’s mess. The basement of the house (sub-basement, really) housed a huge industrial plastic tub and several fifty-gallon drums full of sulphuric acid, perfect for disposing of dead bodies. At least that’s the first use that occurred to me. I was getting rid of Eve and Kim when it occurred to me that it could all be used, just as easily, to kill. I made a mental note to do so someday.

  It took a few hours to dissolve the flesh and organs completely. The bones lasted about another day.

  When I’d finished cleaning up, I headed into town and picked up some supplies: milk, cereal, and some pizza rolls. That was when I saw the paper, the one I mentioned earlier, with the official body count.

  All the way home, I laughed at the thought of it being labeled a gang killing.

  I decided to stay home for the evening, get high, and watch some TV.

  After I’d rolled three good hogsteads of nugs, I flipped on my big-screen and stared at CNN while I lit up the first joint. Just about to switch channels, I recognized the place they were reporting from. PLAYAS.

  I’d made CNN!

  Of course, they weren’t giving me credit, but still, that was my handiwork.

  When the story finished, I changed the channel to Showtime and watched an older movie called Martin, a trippy-ass flick by George A. Romero, about an eighty-some year old vampire who is nothing like the traditional sort of undead. It’s fucked up and ends like you’d never expect, but should have.

  I turned in after that and slept until noon the next day.

  * * * *

  The next two months became a blur of travel and murder. I realized that with the money I had at my disposal, I had practically no limits to where I could go or what I could do. I opted to see America. Along the way, I chalked up some of my most unique murders.

  In the great southern state of Alabama, I killed two members of the Ku Klux Klan—brothers (or maybe cousins, I’ve forgotten) who I met at a White Power march.

  These kind of guys really irk me with their whole White Power thing. It’s not just because I’m Jewish (by birth) either—although it definitely doesn’t score them any points. It’s got more to do with them being weak.

  See, they’re not doing all this White Power shit out of hate or rage or even good old bloodlust—nothing even remotely so powerful. They’re doing it out of fear. That’s why terms like Hate Crime and Hate Group are so fucking asinine—they attribute power to those who lack it. Hate is aggressive, dominating, and it’s the most powerful emotion known to man. Fear, on the other hand, is weak; it’s a simpering, whimpering little bastard emotion that people are ashamed to even admit they feel.

  Think about it, though, what’s the Klan’s list of grievances against blacks? They cause crime—that’s fear. They want equal rights—that’s fear too. Taking jobs from whites—fear; fucking white girls—more fear (and an indicator of a poor sexual self-image to boot); hell, you show me any of the so-called “hate” propaganda, and I’ll show you a root of pure fear.

  That’s why I can’t stand these fucks, because, above all else, they are weak.

  Anyway, these two inbreds were named John and Billy. John I covered in thick, black tar and hung. Billy? Well, for good old Billy I went all out: I crucified him on a kerosene-soaked cross and then lit the cross on fire. Ah, sweet metaphor.

  Next, I traveled to Washington State. I caught an environmentalist and a lumberjack and killed them both. The tree hugger I sawed in half, but the lumberjack I just shot. I’d been planning to figure out a cool way to kill him but some shit got fucked up. I almost got caught, and I ended up shooting my way out of a lumber camp.

  I left the place feeling very unhappy with the killing. At that point, I’d started to develop an artistic conscience, and the lumberjack really nagged at it.

  I flew from there to Florida, eager to leave Washington’s failure behind. Incidentally, that’s how I’d been moving about the U.S.—I’d call the state I was heading to and book a hotel room in a large city near the airport. Then I’d UPS my guns or knives—or whatever paraphernalia I was taking—to myself, care of the hotel I’d be staying in. I always made sure that I stayed in a different city than the one I ended up killing in and did my best to keep a low profile. Why take chances if you don’t have to?

  There was only one thing I wanted to do in Florida, only one person I wanted to kill, and only one place I wanted to do it.

  I was going to kill Mickey Mouse in the middle of Disney World.

  The idea struck me back when I’d been hanging hicks in Alabama, and I’d fallen for it instantly. Just the thought of it appealed to me on so many levels. One thing was for certain, though, it wouldn’t be easy—hell, it would be damn hard. Disney World employs a private army of security guards to roam their parks, not to mention surveillance cameras everywhere you go. Still, the idea was too good to let go.

  The Spec Plus was the only weapon I took with me to the Magic Kingdom. I strapped it to my inner thigh to conceal it. That done, the first thing was to find a cover. It didn’t take long. I intercepted a dad and his family struggling to get an oversized cooler into the park. I told them my family was waiting for me and offered my aid with the carrying. They accepted, and I helped them cart the thing through the front gate and all the way to the pavilion area.

  That might seem like an odd thing to do, but the last thing I wanted was to be seen by security entering the park alone. They’d have most likely watched me until I left.

  After I bade farewell to the family, I waded through the ocean of nationalities (an ocean with an abundant Asian undercurrent) in search of a Mickey to kill. About an hour and a half later, I’d scoped out three different Mickeys.

  The first was Mickey as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. I’d always been partial to Fantasia, so I checked him off the list of candidates and looked for a different mouse.

  The next one I spotted dressed in a coat and tails and would have been perfect if not for the fact that Minnie stood with him. She never moved more than a few feet from him the entire time I watched. I ruled him out too.

  I finally located the third Mickey around forty-five minutes
later. By himself, except for the waves of children that ebbed and flowed around him, he wore the traditional white gloves and red trunks. I watched him for three hours, taking care not to be spotted, until, around two, I got my chance.

  He peeled himself away from the children and their parents, mutely bobbing his head back and forth and touching his hands to his face. Once he’d disengaged himself from the last of them, he moved toward an area to the right of a nearby ride. I followed, skirting around to intercept him, making sure I wasn’t seen. He reached a point that passed beneath a thick patch of trees, and I caught him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I leapt on him from behind the trees, tackling him and eliciting the first sound I’d ever heard one of these guys make. He yelped in surprise. I plunged my knife deep into the area where I imagined his throat must be. A thick gurgling sound rewarded my stab, and Mickey flailed wildly beneath me.

  I stabbed him again and again, sticking him thirty-seven times. He stopped squirming by the fifteenth stab and ceased everything altogether by the twenty-first. I stabbed him sixteen more times. It was surreal, the kind of horrible, twisted scene that never happens outside of the psyche. I killed Mickey Mouse, what more can I say?

  I made the news again with that one. Actually, I made it with the other two as well, but the Mickey killing got better coverage. Jay Leno and David Letterman both did pieces on it during their monologues, and Conan O’Brian used it in a skit. My favorite one, though, was the Daily Show—Jon Stewart gave it the inserted face treatment.

  The notoriety only lasted about a week, before the Disney Company brought pressure to bear on everyone and the whole thing was unequivocally dropped. They even got a patsy to take the fall for me—some mental case who’d written threatening letters to the park. He confessed to the crime, and that was that.