by H E Johnson
Then I remembered my feet were wet. Not the vanity. Shit. This was going to be tricky. A slip. A crash. Game over. Sweet would stick a gun in my face all calm and cool. His eyes would glow like they did when he came in my mouth. Then he’d blow a hot load into my skull and paint the wall with my brains.
Or I could do him first.
I took my time. Made sure my feet were set. Then placed my right hand on the bathroom wall to support the shift in weight. Okay. So far, so good. Releasing my grip on the upper deck’s floor, I walked my left hand down the outer wall. Once inside, I placed it against the wall. Then let both hands slide with me as I lowered my ass onto the faucet’s edge. Took a moment to find my balance point.
I breathed slowly. Followed my breath in and out. Reminding myself to stay calm and focus.
Footsteps. I pulled the knife. Crouched slightly.
When Darlene opened the bathroom door, I pinned her arms against her body and stabbed the windpipe. She didn’t have time to yell. Not even a gasp. I cut her throat and eased her onto the floor. Her skin was sweaty and damp. Cum dripped down her thighs and formed a small pool. She watched me. Her lips moved. Telling me to fuck off or burn in hell. I wasn’t sure which but I got the idea.
I blew her a kiss and waited till her eyes went glassy.
Judging from the signs, she’d planned to shower. So I ran the shower and counted one one-thousand all the way to sixty. Minimal hygiene for a skank, right?
I wiped the knife on a towel. Didn’t want it slipping when I shoved it into Sweet. Opening the door, I listened for sounds. Nothing. Maybe he’d fallen asleep afterward.
I couldn’t help smiling. I walked lightly from the bathroom to find Sebastian Sweet stretched out and snoring in bed. I didn’t bother waking him up or trying to explain myself. I cut the motherfucker’s throat in one straight slash. He opened his eyes and grabbed at his throat. Stupid much? I decided this should look like a gang hit. So I cut off that big dick and stuffed it into his mouth. Then set about carving a goodbye message into his chest
Sweet gurgled and died before I could finish and read it to him. Too bad but life goes on, right?
For some of us anyway.
I went to the front door and waved at Jackie. Kurt stood beside her. His left arm was in a sling. He didn’t look happy to see me. He said something to Jackie who nodded.
Happy Ever After
Jackie took back the knife. Then she and Kurt did a quick walkthrough of the houseboat. Viewing my handiwork, Kurt rolled his eyes and asked if I’d ever watched the actors doing forensics at the movies or on TV. I said yeah, sure.
“Because this is a fucking mess,” he told me. “We’ll have to dump the bodies someplace we can stage a decent crime scene.” He looked around. “Or maybe we can have a nice little fire and keep things cosy.”
Jackie told him to set it up. Kurt looked pissed but left to grab supplies. Jackie watched him go. Then took a closer peek at Sweet.
She admitted liking the inscription on his chest. Even read it aloud.
“Best Blowjob Ever.” Jackie smiled and nodded. “Catchy.”
She called someone on her phone and gave our location. Then looked at me.
“You need clothes,” she said. “Maybe you can squeeze into his shirt and pants.”
The pants were okay but the shirt was way too small and ripped across the chest and shoulders. Still beat hanging my tits out in public but not by much. And I didn’t like the idea of riding barefoot on a motorcycle. When I told Jackie, all she said was:
“Try not to fall off.”
Bitch. “What about the stuff I left next door?”
“Relax, Crystal.” She smiled and slapped me on the shoulder. “We’re the good guys, okay?”
◆◆◆
We left Kurt behind to clean up. Jackie and I took the bike and rode out of the city. Eventually we turned off onto a gravel road and went a bit further. Trees everywhere. Nothing else. I didn’t much like it, but what the fuck could I do? I felt boxed in.
I was still pissed at Sweet for turning on me. Him and the rest of those motherfuckers. But they were all dead. Eddie too, according to Jackie. So maybe it was time to forgive and forget and all that shit. Right?
The only one I was gonna miss was Epstein. Killed by me apparently. Which I don’t remember doing so maybe it doesn’t count. Too bad. I liked Zeke.
Well, life’s a motherfucker, ain’t it?
We ended up at some industrial building plopped down in the middle of nothing. Literally. Two-storeys. Surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. Signs on the gate read: “EZ Storage” and “All Units Occupied”. The gate was open so we rode through, down a long gravel driveway, and around to the back.
Jackie parked so I got off and stretched. My bare feet didn’t love the hot gravel. Jackie told me to come on so I tiptoed behind on burning feet to a rear door where she punched numbers into a keypad.
We went inside and down a flight of stairs to a long hallway. We went past a bunch of doors before stopping at one. Jackie opened the door and went in so I tagged along.
It was a fucking lunchroom. Table and chairs. Sink, fridge, microwave. Even a coffee press. Pretty sleek stuff. Jackie said I must be hungry and told me to grab something from the fridge. So I walked up to the fridge and a machine voice said:
“Welcome back, Crystal. You need to rehydrate and replenish your energy stores. I suggest mineral water and a seafood salad.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied and looked around. “Thanks.”
Inside the fridge I found a container labelled “Seafood Salad” next to a bottle of mineral water. The bottle had my name printed on the label. So I checked out the rest of the fridge. There were plenty more bottles of mineral water and food containers. And every fucking one had my name on the label.
This wasn’t the world I knew. Wasn’t sure I liked it either. But Sweet was gone. Epstein too. Leaving me jobless and single, staring into a future with more of the same.
I cracked open a bottle and took a swig.
“What the fuck?” I said. I turned to Jackie. She’d taken a seat at the lunchroom table. “Why’s my name taped to these fucking bottles?”
“The fridge is programmed to optimize your nutrient intake,” said the voice in my head.
Only this time that voice wasn’t coming from inside my head. A black man in a white lab coat stood in the doorway. Tall dude. Built kind of wiry. Nice eyes—if you like that kind of stuff. Warm.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked.
“I’m the voice in your head,” he said. “You can call me Griff or Griffin. Or Head of SpecOps.” He smiled. “And you, my dear, are the infamous Madam Crunch.” Those dark eyes began spinning in circles. “When I count to three, you will wake up and remember that you work for us. We’re going to make a lot of money, Madam Crunch. You are the greatest warrior of all time. And I’m your new best friend. One, two . . .”
◆◆◆
Griffin gave me a complete medical. Aside from a few minor bruises, he said I was “good to go”. So when he asked if I wanted to go home or stick around, I reminded him I was “good to go”. That made him laugh. So I laughed too coz I wanted to be in on the joke.
Being I was covered in blood, Griffin told me to shower first. Which I did. Afterward he drove me home. On the way he kept asking me how I felt. Like every ten seconds or so. By the time we got to my place, I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me. As I got out of his car, he said:
“If you get any bad headaches or weird dreams, let me know. Okay? It’s nothing to worry about. You carried someone else’s memories on top of yours for almost a month. There’s bound to be some residual effects.” Griffin smiled. “You’ll be training with Kurt again in a few days. Just get some rest till then. Yeah?”
I said sure. No prob. And it really wasn’t coz I felt totally okay.
Wasn't much in the fridge. Blended up my usual whey powder and water mixed with frozen strawberries. Slept for a solid
eight. Woke. Took a dump. Drank some water, listened to music and went back to bed. Tried to sleep again but couldn’t stop thinking how that cop must’ve felt being trapped inside my head. Fuck. If it had been me . . . if I’d been stuck inside that cop’s head . .
◆◆◆
“Hey Crystal.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.” A woman’s voice. One I should know. “Can we talk?”
That made me sit up. Maybe a little too fast coz I got dizzy. Looked around but no one was there. I said, “Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m in the bathroom.”
The voice didn’t sound like it was coming from the bathroom. But when someone wakes you up in the middle of the fucking night and tells you she’s in your fucking bathroom then you gotta check it out. So I did.
Floor was ice cold. Which seemed weird for summer. Didn’t bother tiptoeing or any of that shit. Whoever was in the bathroom wanted me there. Huh. Too bad for her.
There was no one in the bathroom. Turned on the light. Still nobody. Now I was pissed.
“I’m here,” the voice said. “In the mirror.”
I didn’t want to look. I remembered the voice now. It was that fucking Cybercrime cop. She wanted me to look in the mirror and see her dead face talking to me. But this was only a nightmare. If I closed my eyes, it would all go away . . .
“They’re not your friends. None of them.”
“Shut up.”
"Griffin wants it all. You'll see. But we don't need him."
And then she was gone. I looked at the mirror. She’d written a message in lipstick. One word.
◆◆◆
It was a frigid day for a beach shoot. North wind blowing over the blue-green ocean sent high waves crashing against the sand. Our camera crew had set up around the perimeter. They were bundled up in sweaters and jackets and toques. Shivering like a bunch of pussies.
We stood waist-deep in cold water. Below the surface we wore a black latex thong. Above: two red nipple pasties molded into hammers. We liked the cold. It felt the way death should feel. Painful at first, then nothing.
A tiny silver fish swam in front of me. Followed closely by another, larger fish.
“No worries,” we told the little one. “It only hurts for a bit.”
Heard the chopper coming. Shielding our eyes from the morning sun, we watched it set down on the beach. Two figures were booted off the helicopter. One male. One female.
Tossed out of paradise like Adam and Eve.
The man was heavyset; the woman tall and slim. Both in gladiator-type getups. So lots of leather and metal spikes—none of which would deflect the heavy blunt object in my hands. They stopped to stare at us. Then ran to the cache marked with a blue flag. Grabbing weapons, they approached the shoreline.
The voice in our head spoke. Reminding us that a four-way split left too many fingers in the pie.
“Game face,” said Griffin. “Going live now.”
We raised our hammer in salute.
“Tell him,” said Nikita. “Let him sweat a little.”
“Tell him what?” asked Griffin. He sounded confused. “Who the hell are you talking to, Crystal?”
“Chameleon,” I said. “Chameleon, you motherfucker.”
The End
◆◆◆
Also by H.E. Johnson:
High Ground
Softly Launching
Splatter of Fact
Cora
Lost in the Amazon
Kitsch & Moonshine