This Town Needs a Monster

by Andersen Prunty

  Once everyone had gathered around the tables I drifted up toward them. The setting sun hit the backyard in such a way that everything seemed to glow—the white of the contributors’ hair and the dresses of the girls, the freshly watered lawn, the white tablecloths, the crystal blue of the pool. I got just close enough to hear the hushed conversations, the comforting clack of silverware, and the sloshing of water and coffee and wine being poured.

  I spotted Bob Sanders, his wife sitting next to him. What had he said her name was? Sophia? Fiona. I was pretty sure that’s what he’d said. She wasn’t as old or hideous as I thought she’d be. From this distance, she looked like she was probably even around my age, possibly a little older. Her blond hair was swept up and she wore some kind of black spaghetti strap top. Since she was sitting down I couldn’t really tell what else she wore or get a good idea of her figure. She was probably thin. I thought most rich people—women, at least—were obsessed with being thin.

  My phone vibrated.

  It was a text from Dawn.

  It said: “U should probably take those pills.”

  I reached into my pocket and grabbed the pills Bob Sanders had given me. I still had a little beer left so I popped the pills and washed them down with that. I’d never taken anything like that and had no idea how long it would take them to kick in. Or if I’d even need them. I’d never had any problems in that department before but, then again, I’d never attempted to rape anyone, either.

  A team of waiters emerged from the back of the house carrying many shiny silver trays heaped with bowls of salad. It took a few minutes before they finally got to the Sanders. Once the bowl of salad was placed in front of Fiona, she excused herself and stood up, smoothing the front of her cocktail dress down over her thin thighs. She casually looked around and headed toward the house.

  I had a moment of fear and paralysis. I didn’t know if I’d be able to do this or not. I should have drunk a lot more. My mouth went dry. I didn’t feel aroused at all. What if Bob Sanders was just setting me up? What if he hated poor people so much this was all worth it just to see me go to jail for attempted rape? Wasn’t jail where most rich white Republicans felt like poor people should be anyway?

  I forced myself to move because if I didn’t I thought my fear would eventually force me to take root where I stood.

  I walked quickly in an attempt to close the distance.

  By the time she reached the back doors I was only about fifteen feet behind her.

  I dumped my beer bottle in a trashcan and entered the house.

  Fiona walked through some kind of very formal dining room. Most of the guests were out at the tables and the servants were apparently taking this opportunity to clean up after them.

  I tried to come up with some sort of game plan but it almost seemed too ridiculous. I wasn’t a violent person. I felt like, if Bob wanted me to do this, he should have given me something like PCP or bath salts. Something that would turn me into a raging lunatic.

  Fiona cast a lingering gaze over her shoulder.

  Somehow, I told myself this made what I was about to do okay.

  She’d spotted me. It felt like she was aware of it. We were the only two people in the room who were not staff or young prostitutes. This was her last chance to back out. She’d seen me. She knew I was the guy. If I was too repulsive or she didn’t want it to happen, she would have shifted course.

  Before reaching the grand reception room, she turned to her right and started down a dimly lit hallway. I assumed the areas with the lights turned off were the places guests weren’t supposed to go.

  Toward the end of the hallway she made another right and disappeared through what I assumed was a doorway.

  My heart pounded and I tried to regulate my breathing so it didn’t run away with me.

  I turned into the open doorway and went down a few steps.

  I stood in some kind of finished basement. The lights were turned low but it looked like it was used as some kind of recreation room. I spotted two pool tables, a ping pong table, a wall of dartboards, and a wet bar. Toward the back of the room, fluorescent light spilled from another opening.

  I paused and took a series of deep breaths. Tried to slow my heart. The Viagra probably wasn’t helping. What if I had a heart attack during my first attempted rape? I was middle-aged and hadn’t really taken care of myself at all. I tried not to think about it. It was just something else to worry about.

  Maybe as a stalling technique, maybe in an attempt to make it a more genuinely authentic experience, I went over to the bar and rummaged around until I came up with a corkscrew. It was the most threatening thing I could find.

  I held it in my hand so it was plainly visible and walked toward the bright light.

  I walked into the laundry room filled with white tile and stainless steel machines.

  Fiona stood toward the back of the room.

  She turned to me, laughed a little, and said, “I think I got turned around.”

  I grabbed the heavy wooden door and shut it, turning the lock.

  “You don’t want to do this,” she said. “Just let me go back to the party.”

  I began walking toward her.

  She ran toward me on the opposite side of a bank of folding tables. She reached the door quickly, cranking the handle with one hand and pounding on the door with the other. She made no attempt to actually unlock it.

  “Help!” she yelled. “Rape!”

  I didn’t know if anyone could hear her or not but felt completely terrified. The Viagra was kicking in, however, and my cock felt like it was about to shoot off into space. Maybe the sudden rush of blood to that area removed the last bit of judgment I had in my brain.

  I grabbed her arm and yanked her away from the door, throwing her to the floor.

  She sat up and looked up at me, an expression of maybe genuine terror on her face. She was quite beautiful. Almost like an older version of the young girls wandering the property.

  Her legs were parted slightly and I could see the crotch of her black underwear.

  “Help me!” she shouted. “Somebody help!”

  I pointed the corkscrew at her and said, “Shut the fuck up.” I hoped my voice didn’t quaver too much.

  She kept screaming.

  I grabbed a washcloth from one of the laundry bins. It was folded so I imagined it was clean.

  Fiona scooted away from me on her ass.

  She stood up quickly and came at me with her nails. She gouged and slapped my face. She was only a few inches shorter than me but probably only weighed a hundred pounds at most.

  I held the corkscrew in front of my face with my right hand and grabbed her around the throat with my left. Her neck was so thin my hand nearly encircled it. I pushed her back against a bank of dryers and squeezed her throat until she stopped screaming. Her eyes grew watery and a vein in her forehead bulged. She opened her mouth, trying to get air, and I shoved the washcloth in with the hand holding the corkscrew. I turned her around, dropped the corkscrew, and mashed her face against the glass of one of the dryers. She now furiously breathed through her nose. Her eyes were watering and a trail of clear snot leaked from her nostrils. She couldn’t really get at me with her arms. All her attempts to kick me in that backward fashion just meant there was more pressure on her face against the dryer. Keeping my left hand on the back of her head, I unfastened myself with my free hand, tugging my underwear over an erection that seemed painful and nearly foreign to me. I plunged my hand between her legs and put all of my weight against her. I massaged her pussy roughly through the thin fabric of her underwear. I listened to her gagging and attempting to scream against the washcloth. I pushed her dress up and hooked my hands into the band of her underwear, yanking them down. She renewed her efforts, slamming her hands against the dryers and trying to push back against me. Now that both of my hands were free I wrapped them around her upper arms and took her down to the floor. I pulled her thin arms behind her and clasped one of my hands around her w
rists, pressing them against her lower back. I rested my weight on the backs of her legs and pushed her dress back up with my free hand. Her ass was pale and round and small and amazingly firm. I split her cunt with my hand, sticking two and then three fingers into her. I grabbed my cock and pushed myself into her. She was tight and wet and I took my time. She struggled against me as I thrust against her. I thought I would come right away but I didn’t. I went slow and then hard and fast until I got tired. Time seemed to expand and stretch out. There was no music or sound of any kind, other than the faint buzz of the lights and my ragged breathing and her muffled grunts. The wet sound of our flesh smacking together. I took myself just to the brink of coming and slid out of her and stood up. I quickly took off my shirt and grabbed the corkscrew. I looked down at her, limp and sobbing on the floor. I noticed some clothesline draped over a portable clothes rack.

  I pointed the corkscrew at her and said, “I want you to stand up and face me. If you take the rag out of your mouth, I’m going to kill you and finish up with your dead body.”

  She slowly and shakily stood, her skirt falling back down into place.

  She turned and looked at me.

  I pulled off my shirt and shook the corkscrew at her.

  “Take off your dress.”

  She reached down and pulled it over her head. She wore a black strapless pushup bra. Bruises were beginning to form at the bottom of her ribcage and her hipbones.

  “Take off the bra.”

  She took it off.

  “I’m going to tie you up now. If you try anything . . .” I again shook the corkscrew.

  I grabbed the clothesline and approached her.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  She turned around.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  She did that and I sloppily tied her wrists.

  “Now put your ankles together.”

  I bound her ankles.

  I put the corkscrew down and picked Fiona up and took her over to one of the folding tables. Now that we were both completely naked, more of our skin was touching and I became even more aroused. I bent her over the table and again entered her cunt, massaging her asshole with my thumb as I did so. Once my cock was wet with her juices, I pulled out and pressed it against her asshole. I used one hand to spread her ass cheeks and the other to press the tip of my cock against her tight sphincter. Once I broke the seal I slowly slid in to the hilt. I fucked her slowly, sliding the entire length in and out until moving faster and faster. She stopped struggling after a few minutes. I fucked her harder and harder, banging her thighs against the table. I looked down at her reddened little ass and noticed her hands were balled into fists. She opened and closed her hands and I felt her asshole spasm around my cock. I had to stop or I was going to come. I stayed in her until her asshole stopped constricting. I pulled out. Her legs were shaking.

  “Now I want you to get on your knees.”

  She dropped to her knees.

  I bent down and spit into her face. She looked surprised. My spit blended with the snot and tears already there.

  “I’m going to pull the washcloth out now. Don’t scream.”

  I pulled the washcloth out.

  I was still really hard.

  “Open your mouth.”

  She looked at my cock. She didn’t open her mouth. I grabbed the corkscrew off the table and pressed it against the side of her head. I looked down at her pussy and noticed a string of girl come extending to the floor.

  “Open it.”

  She opened her mouth.

  I pressed the corkscrew against her temple, braced the back of her head with my free hand, and filled her mouth with my cock. I was so close to coming I felt out of my head. I started fucking her mouth harder, feeling the tip of my cock press against her esophagus and disregarding her choking and gagging. When I was finally ready to explode, I held the back of her head hard and pressed myself as far as I could into her as my penis swelled and constricted, releasing burst after burst of come into her throat.

  I pulled out and she slumped over, sobbing and gagging.

  Now we’d reached the awkward stage.

  I wanted to say something to her. To make sure that was really what she wanted or whatever but figured it was probably a little too late for that anyway. I quickly put my clothes on and got the hell out of the laundry room.

  I thought I should probably get the hell away from the house but as I was in one of the bathrooms washing the blood off my face, my phone vibrated with a text from Dawn.

  It said: “Get back to your post, Marlboro Man.”

  I felt weird. Not good at all. I didn’t know if it was a fear thing or an ethical thing or just the fact it felt like I’d been wrestling with someone for the last hour and that was more exercise than I’d gotten in a long time. And the scratches on my face hurt pretty badly. Before leaving the bathroom I disappeared into a stall and had a small breakdown.

  I became extremely paranoid I had actually just raped that woman. She had certainly acted like how I thought someone being raped might act. But maybe that was part of it. Part of the thrill. She’d yelled a lot and no one had made any attempt to intervene. Maybe the house was that soundproof. Maybe everyone felt so secure that, even if they’d thought they heard something, they’d told themselves there was no way that could happen here.

  There wasn’t really anything I could do now. If there were going to be consequences, I’d just have to deal with them.

  I left the house and went back to my spot near the butt stand.

  There were more people around it now, probably because the drinks had been flowing for a while and people’s resolves had lessened. Or maybe it was because everyone had sneaked off to the nearly infinite areas of the house to have their little flings they’d most probably paid for and this was their afterglow smoke.

  My cock was still hard and this made me a little self-conscious.

  Bob Sanders drifted over. He seemed drunk and exhausted. Why did he keep talking to me if he hated me so much?

  “Looks like you got a little roughed up.” He moved his hand in a circular fashion a couple inches from his face.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Fiona said she had a wonderful time, although it was maybe not as much as she’d wanted.” He exhaled a plume of smoke in my face. “The next time somebody asks you to do something like this, don’t be such a fucking pussy.”

  I wanted to hit him but just lit the cigarette I’d been cradling in my hand instead.

  He went over to a group of men who were more like him and they all stood around smoking and looking at each other’s phones and laughing. They all had erections tenting their slacks.

  I continued smoking and drinking, going back and forth between the butt stand and the bar.

  Later into the evening I noticed almost everyone was carrying a gun. Some of them were lethal semi-automatic looking things. Others had futuristic looking pistols. Some had large rifles and shotguns that seemed almost quaint. Even the women carried guns.

  I didn’t see any sign of Dawn or Plopsy. I caught a glimpse of Fiona, sharing a drink with her friends, laughing and looking radiant.

  The dining tables had been removed and replaced by something large, draped in a white cloth. I noticed music was playing. Light classical music. I hadn’t noticed it before.

  Eventually an air horn sounded and everyone gathered around the draped structure. The cloth was removed and shouts of anger and laughter erupted from the crowd.

  A massive piñata wearing a turban and a beard hung over the crowd of people.

  They all raised their firearms and began firing at the piñata. I wondered what it contained but it didn’t take long for bullets to begin shredding it. Blood began pouring out of it. Or something used to simulate blood. I expected the guests to move away from it, but they didn’t. They moved toward it, letting the blood rain down on them, smearing it all over themselves.

  “You smell like pussy.” Dawn stood t
o my left. “I mean, like, you smell really bad. Ready to go?”

  I looked at the horror in front of me and said, “Please.”

  Pining

  I didn’t hear from Dawn for three days. I spent most of my time in a semi-depressed state of near paralysis. If you ever ask yourself how poor people can take the jobs they do—things like factory work or a call center or construction or data entry or landscaping or fast food or retail—it’s because whatever that job is is probably an alternative to this nothing. I was never a person with big ideas or an imagination or drive or initiative of any kind really. The modern world is rigged so it costs money just to leave the house. I’d had hobbies at some point in my life but somewhere along the way they’d been ironed out or expunged through lack of money and free time. The hobbies I’d been left with were really more like addictions—drinking, smoking, sex when I could get it. Maybe the internet.

  Mostly I lay in my bed, tried to conserve cigarettes, and thought about Dawn. I began to place things in two contexts: with Dawn and without Dawn. With Dawn was the preferred context. It was dark and kind of scary, sure, but it was exciting. I never seemed to be crushed by boredom and a sense of meaninglessness when around her. It seemed like there was the possibility of something. With her I’d already done and seen things I wouldn’t have imagined. And there was always the possibility of more. If I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do with my life it seemed like she had and there was a part of me that wanted to see her achieve her goals. Sure, there may be consequences for some actions—like the chain or the looming thought of blackmail—but it seemed kind of pure. Quick and painful. Black and white.

  Time spent without Dawn was very familiar territory. What if it lasted forever? What if I never saw her again? I almost texted her the day after the fundraiser but didn’t want to seem too desperate. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was to her. Maybe texting her would show her how much I desired her, but I was afraid it would make me seem too needy. Everything had happened without me doing much of anything so far so I imagined she would eventually get in touch with me. Still, the longer she went without contacting me, the more I’d have to think about going back to my old world. Finding some kind of dead end, practically temporary job so I could make just enough money for gas and cigarettes and cheap food that came from a can or the freezer section. No bonuses. No highlights. No vacations. Beer would be a fucking luxury. Just mindless drudgery until whatever undiagnosed illness the lack of good insurance allowed to fester in my body overtook me, hopefully swiftly. Thinking about a world without Dawn seemed completely hopeless.