In front of each lane was a waist-high table for reloading. Off to the right, a rack of paper targets and PVC target holders, shooting glasses, and ear protection.
Jack selected a, Smith & Wesson revolver and some 9mm ammo, opted for foam earplugs rather than a headset, and yellow tinted eyewear. Tom put on eyes and ears and selected the same target as Jack; a silhouette of a zombie, colored green and black. He took the lane next to her, clipped the paper target to the PVC pipe which held it flat, then attached it to a hook on the wire. Jack pressed a button on the table, and the automatic pulleys took her target back about ten meters. Tom matched her distance, than unholstered his 9mm, an S&W M&P.
Roy preferred the heft of a .45, thinking it was more effective for self-defense, but as with many things, Roy was mistaken. While the .45 was a bigger slug, it was also heavier, and when the weapon was heavier, and the recoil was harder to handle one-handed. Tom’s 9mm rounds had a higher velocity, lessor recoil, and his M&P held eighteen rounds; seventeen in the mag and one in the spout.
I’d rather have five extra rounds than slightly bigger holes.
Jack assumed an isosceles stance—feet a shoulder length apart, slight crouch, arms fully extended—and fired once at her target, clipping the zombie in the shoulder. The green paper turned red, indicating a hit.
She adjusted and put the next four rounds in the zombie’s face.
Tom adopted a fighting stance—his left foot slightly ahead of his right—and aimed at the body. His first shot hit the paper but not the zombie, and he put his next five in the center mass.
In the meantime, Jack had reloaded and put five more into the zombie’s face, carving out a fist-sized hole where its nose was.
Tom raised his aim, put two in the head, missed two more.
“You’re booger-flicking,” Jack yelled.
Tom set down his weapon and glanced at her, lifting up one earpiece.
“You’re releasing your finger off the trigger right after the break, rather than holding it. Like flicking a booger. Hold the trigger after the shot.”
He nodded, replaced his ears, and once again aimed downrange at the head.
Three in the face, one in the ear.
Readjusting to a smaller target, he aimed at the neck, and connected three out of four times, grouping the shots within a few inches.
In the meantime, Jack had pretty much obliterated her zombie’s entire head.
They brought their targets in, and Tom laboriously refilled his magazine with Harry’s Hornaday Critical Duty ammo. Jack had already set up two more targets, and she now wielded a 9mm Beretta compact. She tucked it into a shoulder holster, and with a smooth motion drew and fired twice, both hitting the heart.
Tom continued to torture his thumbs pressing rounds into the mag, missing his UPLULA speed loader, knowing McGlade probably had one but that would mean re-engaging with McGlade, paying half-attention to Jack as she cut her draw/doubletap time to under two seconds. Maybe even under a second.
If I practiced two hours a day for the next ten years I might get half as good.
By the time Tom loaded all seventeen rounds, his thumbnail bleeding because of the strong spring, Jack had moved on to her third gun, a block composite carbine with a Buck Rogers futuristic look to it.
He joined her as she stopped her new target at five meters, which surprised Tom.
Longer guns are for better accuracy at longer distances. What’s she up to?
Jack brought the carbine to bear, snugging it hard against her shoulder and cheek, standing so still Tom couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
She fired.
Forehead, dead center.
After a few seconds, she fired again.
Missed.
That’s weird. The Loot never misses.
Tom squinted at the target, and Jack fired a third time.
The target moved, the slightest flutter.
But no hole.
A fourth, shot.
Another slight flutter, but no hole.
Wait… there is a hole.
The first hole is a little bit larger.
Holy shit. She’s putting the rounds through the same hole.
Like goddamn Robin Hood.
Amazed, Tom considered applauding, reconsidered it because he didn’t want to break Jack’s concentration, and settled for watching silently, feeling sorry for whatever son of a bitch wound up on the other end of the Loot’s barrel.
Hoping it would be Erinyes.
THE COWBOY
Ilse Koch.”
The Cowboy shrugs slightly.
The giant continues. “Ilse Koch was the wife of the Commandant at Buchenwald concentration camp, known as one of the most vicious female Nazis of the Third Reich.”
“I thought Eva Braun would be a little too obvious.”
“You’re with the Order?”
“No.”
“Hybristophiliac?”
“I don’t know the term.”
“I read about it in the prison library. Also known as Bonnie & Clyde syndrome. Some people get turned on by men who commit horrible crimes.”
You may have done some horrible things, but you’ve got nothing on me, brother.
“No. I’m looking for an ex-cop. Woman named Jacqueline Daniels.”
“I’ve been keeping tabs. Heard she died.”
The Cowboy stares at the giant of a man on the other side of the glass, and marvels how tiny the phone looks in his huge hands.
“She was living in Florida, living under a fake name. I’ve got two cyber guys trying to find her. I’m planning to kill her, and her husband, Phineas.”
“Why do you want Phin dead?” His voice is so low it rumbles.
“Personal reasons,” The Cowboy answers.
“I know how to find him. But I need you to do something for me first.”
“What?”
Hugo Troutt places his massive palm on the glass and says, “Get me the fuck out of here, and I’ll help you kill my brother and his bitch wife.”
The Cowboy smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Hugo takes his hand away. “The bulls listen in sometimes. I like to say dramatic things to mess with them. Obviously I’m not getting out of here, ever.”
“Obviously.”
I can’t get over how massive this man is. Like a wrestler on TV. Muscles on muscles, a gigantic brow ridge, a thin mohawk atop a shaved head that’s mosaiced with hate tattoos.
Plus the seven tears on his cheek.
He looks like a monster from a nightmare.
And I’m getting aroused.
“The only getting out I’ll ever see is every three days I get an hour of yard time. Next one is coming up Tuesday, around 10am. Sometimes it’s earlier. Sometimes later. But I always look forward to that southern exposure. Even with four towers and eight rifles on me.”
Date, time, location, and number of guards.
His Neanderthal looks are deceiving. This guy is sharp.
The Cowboy glances at his seven blue tear tattoos. “You really believe in that white superiority bullshit?”
“Being superior has nothing to do with race. Some are predators. Some are prey.”
Truer words were never spoken.
“I can tell you’ve seen some things,” Hugo says. “Done some things.”
Terrible things, Big Man.
“You do time, Ilse?”
“Not exactly.”
“I see scars. Under your collar line.”
“People do bad things.”
“Yes, we do.”
“You can be a victim. Or you can be even badder.”
Hugo nods. “I’m six-five, wear a size 14 boot, wide. Triple X shirt, 36 waist and inseam. I’m into straight razors and Desert Eagles and blowjobs.”
I like this guy.
“Most of that is doable. Maybe all.”
Hugo smiles, and the Cowboy gets a tingle.
Hybristophilia. Maybe there’s something to that.
/> Reminds me of a gymnast I used to know. Also a bad boy. Also scary as hell.
“I’ll be seeing you, Hugo Troutt.”
The Cowboy gets up and leaves, feeling his eyes on her.
This could all work out.
Or it could be a match made in hell.
Either way, it’s going to be interesting…
PLASTIC
He can’t stop thinking about the man who came in.
Brad Dunwich.
Of course, he isn’t really Brad Dunwich. He checked the photocopy of his Driver’s License after he left, and the real Dunwich has an entirely different bone structure.
Which means this scarred, misshapen man is a liar.
I like liars. They’re predictable.
After parking his Mercedes-Benz E-Class in the garage, Plastic re-arms the home security system, takes off his jacket, dresses in his lab coat, face mask, surgical cap, and magnifying goggles, and goes to check on his patients.
Stacy is awake, and annoyed.
“I’m starving! This food you left us is shit!”
She throws an empty box of crackers at him.
“The box is empty. Obviously you aren’t starving.”
“When are you letting me out of here?”
He ignores her and focuses on Chad, closing the privacy curtain between the two beds.
Chad is semi-awake, and he mumbles something, groggy and incoherent.
Plastic checks his bandages, grunting in satisfaction.
I do excellent work. This will heal up perfectly.
And by that, I mean horribly.
He puts on new bandages, then changes the catheter bag and the IV bag.
Don’t want to mix those up. Heh heh.
“When are you letting me out of here?!”
He blows out a breath.
I’m so sick of her.
And I need to get Chad acquainted with the routine. I don’t need them co-conspiring.
“Today,” he says.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’ll let you go today. But first I’ll let you see your face.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Plastic pulls back the curtain, then goes to the closet. He takes out the rolling floor mirror and pushes it to the end of the Stacy’s bed, then gets behind her with the syringe of fentanyl, pressing the tip into her IV port.
“Go ahead. Take off your bandages.”
She hesitates—
—then quickly pulls away the gauze and tape.
Her reaction is priceless.
All the effort. All the time and money. All the precaution and worry.
It’s all worth it just to see the look on her face when she sees her face.
Then the Stacy’s screaming begins to hurt his ears, and Plastic doses her with the opioid. When her swollen eyelids finally flutter closed, he places a black pillowcase over her head, puts the mirror back into the closet, and pushes her out of the recovery room.
He takes her to the garage, to his other vehicle.
The invisible one.
After putting her in the back, he removes his cap, mask, glasses, and cell phone (the authorities can track everywhere a cell phone has been), then gets in the driver’s seat and heads to the Angeles National Forest by way of Big Tujunga Canyon Road.
In many ways, the drop-off is the most dangerous part of the whole operation.
Picking up someone in this truck is so routine that people don’t even stare.
But dropping someone off and leaving them on the side of the road would require a lot of explaining.
So Plastic takes his time, driving around and around anonymously until there are no other vehicles, then he quickly stops in Pipe Canyon and yanks the Stacy out of the back, dumping her on the side of the road next to a FALLING ROCKS sign.
Be pretty funny if a rock fell on her.
But such a huge waste of effort.
And if she dies, there is only one satisfactory way.
Kill yourself.
Like I considered doing, so many times during high school.
Avoiding the rocks, Plastic squats, scoops her up, and quickly jogs over to the other side of the road. After setting her down again, he snatches off her pillowcase hood and is back in the car, driving away, twenty-six seconds after he pulled over.
Not too bad. Could have been a little quicker. Most important thing is no one saw me.
Well… second most important thing.
The first most important thing is another Stacy has become a Becky.
Making the world better, one conceited jerk at a time.
Plastic really wants to share this with someone.
His whole life, he’s wished for someone to share things with.
His looks prevented that.
Overweight. No chin. Thin lips. Big nose. Hairline receding at sixteen.
Sixteen! How unfair is that?
His friends were socially stigmatized fuglies, like him. Awkward. Unloved.
Didn’t lose his virginity until sophomore year in college.
Didn’t have sex again for four years after that.
Things changed after graduating medical school. But not because of his degree.
Plastic always assumed that all women wanted to date a doctor.
Untrue. They wanted a cute doctor.
So he borrowed even more money and had work done.
Hair restoration. Nose job. Ears fixed. Chin implant. Fat injections into his lips. Acne scars sanded away.
People didn’t want me for who I was. So I became someone they wanted.
And while recovering from eleven surgeries and procedures, he hit the gym and learned the pickup artist game from the incel forums.
The results couldn’t have been better if he’d sold his soul to the devil.
But, like all deals with Satan, the rapid advancement in his career, many sexual conquests, and overwhelming acceptance—ne worship—by the people who rejected him made Plastic depressed rather than happy.
He craves something more than conquest.
He craves to even the playing field for normies.
So began the secret double-life.
By day, helping the not-so-attractive become attractive.
By night, helping the aesthetically privileged learn what it was like to be dateless on a Friday night.
I’m like a goddamned superhero.
All I need is a red cape and a scalpel emblem on my chest.
When he gets home, Plastic undresses, does fifty laps in his pool, and orders some Italian food for delivery. Then he gets on the dating app, swipes left and right a few times, exchanges texts with a promising lady and agrees to meet for lunch, and then logs into his VPN and searches for more information about the dastardly scourge of Los Angeles who calls himself Plastic.
No new news. But there will be, in a day or two, once the Stacy goes to the police.
Then he logs into his favorite forum of his favorite sock puppet, SCRRED GRRL, and begins reading all the posts since yesterday.
There’s a new thread from 2UglyInBH titled I‘M GETTING THE TATT REMOVED.
Oh, wow. This will be good.
He begins to read.
—I’ve done a lot of research and I found a laser specialist to erase the g*ddam Becky tattoo on my chest. He said it will take at least six treatments, but I’m ready to start. Best of all it won’t interfere with the rhinoplasty I have scheduled for Saturday. I’m getting my life back peeps!
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