“I don’t think they should. But this isn’t a problem you can relate to, Jackie. You’ve always been attractive.”
I bridled at that. “I’ve been confident.”
“Which is attractive, as Tom said. But you’ve also got good genetics. High cheekbones, a nice rack, you’ve always worked out, you’ve always dressed very well, present moment notwithstanding. You’re in your fifties, wearing Walmart sweats and leg braces, and you could still go out and get picked up if you wanted to.”
“I doubt it.”
“Tom? Roy? Do you find Jack attractive?”
Neither said anything.
“I know she was once your boss, and you both are married, and she’s twice your age—”
“Twice their age? I’m not twice their age.”
“—but take a side in the discussion. Is she attractive or not.”
Tom went first. “Jack is attractive.”
“Don’t mean to be weird, Loot, but I always thought you looked good.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“You always had your pick, Jack. Phin’s a thug, but he isn’t ugly. He’s got a six pack. Before Phin, there was Latham, he was fit and easy to look at and made a ton of money. And before him, weren’t you dating a body builder half your age? And wasn’t your ex-husband famous?”
My argument seemed to be weakening.
“Okay, McGlade. Let’s say that, for the moment, I agree the average woman can find more lovers than the average man. There are tradeoffs. We carry the babies, which is a huge responsibility. We are victims of a highly disproportionate rate of male violence. We’re called bitches when we don’t respond to men, and sluts when we express our sexuality. If I don’t want to sleep with you, that doesn’t make me a cunt. And if I do sleep with you, it doesn’t make me a whore. I’m a human being, with tastes and standards and opinions and a right to say yes or no. Women aren’t the enemy.”
“I’m not saying they are. Don’t confuse me with incels.”
“Men also might want to lower what they perceive to be their standards. As sure as incels complain that every Stacy wants a Chad, all men want a Stacy. That woman you know with an imperfect complexion and love handles and one boob a cup size larger than the other may be just as lonely and just as horny as you are, but you’re spending all your time depressed because the Maxim models won’t answer your fan mail.”
“I agree on all of this, Jackie. Also, I dated a Maxim model. I have pictures if you want to see them. She was born without tendons. Her flexibility is extraordinary.”
My hackles were up and I had to get the rest of it out. “Any man can get laid if he really wants to. Fly to Nevada and pay for it. That’s a consensual transaction, and a lot healthier than cyberstalking your high school crush, or saving four months’ salary for a chin implant, or taking online courses to become a pick-up artist, or wasting your time on sad, misogynist message boards whining that you aren’t loved because of reason X. Reason X is on men, not women. See a therapist, lift some weights, learn how to be a nice person, and stop complaining that you can’t bang a pop star.”
“Again, I agree. So does the majority. Ugly, stupid people get laid and find love. That’s why there are a majority of ugly, stupid people.”
“And you can always bang fruit,” Roy offered.
“So why are you saying Plastic isn’t a misogynist?”
“Because of this.” McGlade advanced the PowerPoint to the next picture.
A picture of a horribly disfigured man.
“I don’t think Plastic is misogynist, or misandrist. This isn’t about hating women or men for being women or men. Plastic hates beautiful people. That’s what we need to focus on.”
PLASTIC
The girl is twelve years old, perfect bone structure, post-pubescent. A stunner.
She’ll be breaking hearts soon. If she isn’t doing that already.
But now she has this unfortunate nose issue.
He lifts the chisel, angling it up through the right nostril, adjusting the angle until it clicks against bone.
“Hammer.”
The surgical hammer is still warm from the autoclave.
Even though it is made of polished steel, it is a medieval, barbaric tool. Blunt. Ugly.
But in the hand of a skilled surgeon, precise as a scalpel.
Used to heal and repair.
Or to destroy and disfigure.
He raises the hammer.
SMACK!
CRACK!
And the blood flows.
He goes in with forceps, pulling out splinters of bone.
Her nose will be very swollen when I finish.
Bulbous and red. Like the nose of a clown.
Will they call her Bozo at school?
Will she lose all of her cheerleading friends?
Will the boys stop texting?
I control it all, right now.
Control if she spends her life adored, or rejected.
Allow her to be beautiful. To flaunt her aesthetic privilege.
Or she can be forever ugly. To be stared at, and not admired. Instead, pitied and despised.
It makes him smile beneath his face mask and shield.
“That’s a nice section of rib, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Do you have enough fascia and cartilage?”
“It should be more than enough.”
“I must say, Doctor, it is an honor to be working with you. This girl, in any other hands, would be permanently scarred. But you’ll make her beautiful again.”
Plastic stares at the picture of the girl on the computer monitor, a close-up of her perfect nose.
Her pre-accident nose.
“This is why we wear helmets when mountain biking, people.”
Titters from the nurses and his partner.
It is so tempting to make a mistake.
To allow just a bit of imperfection to remain.
But I’m paid well to be perfect.
And my hobby of spreading imperfection is expensive.
So this young Stacy will be spared my attempts to make the world a fairer place, and gets to skate through life on her looks.
For now.
After the successful surgery, Plastic degowned and met his partner in the break room.
“Good work in there, Dr. Schlimm.”
“Same to you, Dr. Absalt. You never cease to impress.”
“Beautiful young girl. If she heals well, there won’t be any traces of the accident. She might even have a nicer nose than before.”
“Her parents will be pleased.”
“Indeed.”
But me? Not so pleased.
I’ll keep an eye on her. See how she does in high school.
Maybe I’ll see her again in a few years.
JACK
Just as my stomach threatened to boycott anymore disfigurement pics, McGlade’s PowerPoint presentation ended.
Seventeen known victims, so far. Some mutilated worse than others.
Besides the tattooed woman with her breasts switched to her back, there were:
A man whose ears had been reattached upside-down.
A woman with her hands switched with her feet
A man whose pubic hair had been grafted onto his chin, and his mustache sewn between his eyebrows.
A woman whose knees were removed so she couldn’t bend her legs (both Tom and I winced at that one).
A man with lip injections the size of soda cans.
A woman with her lips cut off.
A man with five inches of bone removed from his left leg, and his right arm.
A woman with cheekbones so high she looked like an alien.
A man given acne pockmarks over his neck, cheeks, and forehead.
A woman with her nose shaved down to a nub.
A man with his facial nerves damaged, making his face droop.
A woman with her breasts sewn together, creating a single uniboob.
A man with square butt implants.
/> A woman with silicone injections to simulate wrinkles.
A man with scars to simulate wrinkles.
“Okay, let’s do some brainstorming,” McGlade said. “I have some notes, but I don’t want to influence any of you, so let’s just spitball and synergize some outside-the-box deliverable, uh, and shave the baby.”
“What the hell does any of that shit mean?” Roy asked, saying what we all thought.
“I got a business buzzwords app. But that’s some quality mindfulness, Roy. How about you go first?”
“Plastic has surgical skills, and likely a doctorate. Might have a medical license from a foreign country, or it might be revoked, but everything he did costs money. I’m betting he is still practicing. Since all the victims are southern Cali, I’m guessing he’s practicing medicine nearby.”
“There are a thousand practicing plastic surgeons in LA alone.”
“Can any of his implants be traced?” Phin asked.
“Breast implants, and most other surgical implants, have serial numbers—unless they don’t. The implants that have been removed from victims didn’t have serials. Black market, or foreign supplies. No way to track them.”
“What do the victims have in common?” I asked.
“They were all attractive, all live within fifty miles of LaLaLand, and they’re all between the ages of twenty-nine and thirty-three. Other than that, I haven’t found anything. None of them know each other. Nine women and eight men. Eleven Caucasian, one Asian, two Latinx, two African American, one Pacific Islander. All above-average income, eleven of them white collar, five married wealthy spouses, eight of them registered Democrats, six Republicans. None of them linked together on social media, and none of them share the same friends. No one went to the same school. I checked backgrounds, Phin. Only felony was a drug arrest for coke, dismissed. Two with DUIs.”
Tom said, “How is he finding them?”
“Unknown. Eight were drugged while in bars or clubs. Three have no memory of how they were abducted. Seven were taken from their homes.”
“Forced entry?” I asked.
“Not that the cops could find, and I didn’t notice anything. Victims either let Plastic in and don’t remember, left their doors open, or the guy knows locks and security systems.”
I thought of Sam, playing videogames in the other room. “How good is your security system, Harry?”
“What did you notice, Jackie?”
“Not much. You don’t even have a gate.”
“Every square foot of the property, inside and out, every room and every corner, covered by hidden cameras with infrared. Windows are shatterproof, locks the best money can buy, and I’ve got enough firepower in the house to fend off a cartel. I have a panic room, which is also my armory. Plus I’ve got the greatest intruder detection system ever, guaranteed to never fail.”
I bit. “And what’s that?”
“My Big Dick.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Seriously. Capybaras are the most trusting animals in the world… unless they don’t trust you. If my Big Dick doesn’t like you, he makes a barking sound. Guaranteed you’re a bad guy. Had a party once, he sniffed out a convicted sex offender, a dirty cop, and an actor who no longer is employable thanks to #MeToo.”
“How about a guard or two?”
“We don’t need guards. All we need is my Big Dick.”
“No offense to your Big Dick,” I said, “but some guards would be a good idea.”
“I’ll look into it. What are your thoughts on Plastic?”
“I want to interview some of the victims.”
“I did that already.”
“Perhaps some of your reports were less than thorough.”
“I’m always thorough.”
“I read your notes on the woman whose breasts were sewn together. Your entire report was just two words. Kinda hot.”
“And that’s true. A couple of these vics, they don’t look as bad as they think they do. The alien cheekbone chick has a slut-o-ween vibe to her, and the guy with the huge lips reminded me of a red-assed baboon during estrus. In a good way.”
“We’ll split up the interviews. Roy and Tom, take the men. McGlade and I will take the women. Phin, you stay and guard Sam.”
“Jack and I need weapons,” my husband said.
“We’ll get to that.” Harry turned to Tom. “But Plastic isn’t the only baddie we’re dealing with. You’re up, Tom.”
Tom opened his laptop.
This is what I’d been dreading.
Seeing pictures of disfigured people had been bad.
I couldn’t handle videos of people being tortured to death.
“I’m going to check on Sam.” I awkwardly stood up.
“Good call, Jackie. I gotta drain Jermaine the main champagne vein. Let’s meet back here in five. I also have a kitchen full of snacks if anyone is hungry. Mi casa, tu casa. But let’s be quick. I accessed ViCAT and had Vicky do profiles of Plastic and Erinyes, and Erinyes is primed and ready to blow…”
ERINYES
What kind of dog is it for?” the salesgirl asks.
She won’t look at Cissick.
No one willingly looks at Cissick.
He’s garbed in his on-the-town outfit; a black, hooded robe he bought at some costume shop on Hollywood Boulevard, black Velcro sneakers, and two hickory canes, each with heavy leaded tips, one with a tourist handle (aka a hook), the other with a silver eagle-head handle (the beak filed to a sharp point).
Since his nose and ears had been cut off years ago, and the California sun hurts his eyes, he wears brown tinted goggles.
I look like a cursed wizard about to take a swim.
Or a spider, crawling around, looking for prey.
“Hundred eighty, maybe two hundred pounds,” Cissick replies.
“Big dog.”
“I will also need a collar. A two-meter chain. No, make that one-meter.”
Shorter chain, less mischief.
“And two dishes. One of food. One for water.”
The food dish will be mostly for show.
I don’t plan on feeding Tom very often.
Being hungry helps with the training.
Cissick picks out a large doghouse (money is no object because he’s made some money off of some video sales, plus he has a stash of cash from all the whores he’s killed throughout the years), and two cheap plastic bowls. He passes on the collar and chain, thinking a visit to the hardware store will provide something more substantial.
And lockable. Dog collars don’t accommodate a padlock.
What else do I need for pet control?
“Do you sell Ketch-Alls and muzzles?”
“Yes. They’re down this aisle.”
“I’ll need a big one.”
“I believe we can accommodate you.”
After arranging for his purchases to be shipped to his bungalow in Compton, Cissick limps into the heat-soaked smoggy-smog and over to the handicapped spot where his scooter awaits. An electric moped, midnight black, zero to sixty in never because it has a top speed of twenty-eight. When Cissick bought it, he also got two bumper stickers, one for each side panel.
The left reads BORN TO BE WILD.
The right reads HOGS & SINNERS & BITCHES & MONEY.
He pulls into traffic, head held high.
In any other town, he’d be pointed and gawked at, jeered and hunted down, beaten up and burned at the stake.
In Los Angeles, he blends right in.
I love LA.
Now to go find a doctor.
Since moving out west and reaching out to Tom, Cissick had abandoned his old identity and taken on a new one. It had been easy, albeit took longer than he expected. Cissick rode public transportation, waiting for a man close to his age who was drunk, high, or asleep, then stole his wallet. It took three days of riding the bus, and two failed attempts, before he got a new name courtesy of a new driver’s license.
Brad Dunwich.
Br
ad’s appearance was nothing like Cissick’s, before or after his disfigurement. But no one questioned the ID, ever. When you’re missing both ears and a nose, and your face is covered with scars, it doesn’t matter if the picture matches you, because no one dares to look too closely.
As Dunwich, Cissick trolled LA’s large plastic surgery community. He never made appointments. He simply walked in, unannounced, and waited until everyone in the waiting room left in disgust. Eventually someone would approach him, Cissick would ask to see a doctor, moan about his pain, and wind up leaving with a pity script for codeine in exchange for promising he’d never return.
A few times, he tried returning, but was usually escorted out of the office moments after entering.
So Cissick shops around.
It’s not like LA lacks for plastic surgeons. There are hundreds. You can’t piss anywhere in Hollywood and not hit a doctor’s office.
Cissick remains on the same street until he comes to an office complex, parks the moped in the handicapped spot (LA has so many handicapped spots it made him wonder if half the city is crippled) and then limps up to the directory, littered with the names of doctors. He clears his throat and spits—
—landing on Dr. X. Kline M.D.
Today is your lucky day, Dr. Kline.
The waiting room contains three patients, and Cissick derives joy getting into the personal space of the nearest, a man with a bandage over his nose. Cissick leers at him, accentuating his wheeze, until the man gets up and leaves. A nurse approaches before Cissick can intimidate patient number two.
“Can I help you?”
She maintains even eye-contact. Tough lady.
“I’m here to see Dr. Kline.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. But I’m in terrible pain.”
“For pain, I recommend the emergency room. I can call you an ambulance.”
“How about I call you an ambulance?” Cissick grins a toothless grin and points at her. “You’re an ambulance!”
Cissick cackles.
The nurse remains unimpressed by the comedic gold standing before her. “Dr. Kline is booked all day today. I can put you on the waiting list for next week.”
“Look at me,” Cissick leans in close and breathy, so she can smell his rotting-gums halitosis. “Things have been done to me that would make you throw up if I described them. I ache. My skin, my bones, my organs; everything hurts. If Dr. Kline can’t show some compassion and see me, I’ll cry discrimination and come back with a TV crew and give him exactly the kind of exposure he doesn’t want. And that will be all on you, because you’re being mean.”
Chaser Page 5