The Apprentice
(1) The Beginning
I'm not really sure when my obsession with death began. I do remember one day playing with my sister's barbie doll along with my GI Joes. I pretended she was a prisoner, and first my soldiers tortured and interrogated her. Then they stripped her and hung her. It excited me somehow, in a way I didn't understand then. My sister found me and started bawling and went and told our mother. I got a good scolding, and was never allowed to play with little sister's toys again. I don't know what drove me to do that, maybe it was something I was born with, some innate human curiosity
concerning death. Or maybe I was just fucked up. I can't really say. I'm not a shrink, but I do remember that was the first erotic death experience I had.
As I got older, I found death in cinema. Nightmare on Elm street practically gave me an orgasm. I was at my friend's house and we were watching it late one night. The death scene with the blond girl undulating across the ceiling and blood flying everywhere gave me the most massive erection I had ever experienced. I thought I was going to cum my pants. I watched the movie later and beat off to that scene, rewinding and replaying it over and over. I loved it, but I worried about myself too. What was wrong with me? Why did dead girls turn me on so much?
I collected movies like that, Halloween, Friday the 13th, and other more offbeat and gorey productions. Not the kind of thing you find on the shelves at your local video stores. I read about serial killers, I read novels about serial killers, and I watched every movie I could. Then I found true bliss on the internet. All my life I thought I was alone in my love of the dead, in my necrophilia, and finally I found others like me. And entire websites devoted to my dark desires. I spent hours and hours, finding the most hardcore sites I could. I went beyond movie scenes and
necro fantasies. I searched out the sites that offered the real thing, crime scene photos, real dead women. They became my ideal lovers. When I wasn't working, I was surfing the web. I thought maybe, just maybe, I might meet a woman one day that would play out one of these fantasies, who could be my pretend victim.
I grew especially fond of asphyxiation. Choaking, suffocating and hanging became my pleasure of choice. Whenever I suggested my fantasies to women I dated, they just looked at me like I was crazy or never called me back. I stopped dating, I gave up. I figured the only place I would ever find the perfect date would be on a cold slab in a morgue, and I wasn't quite sure how to get a ticket into that kind of place. I was far beyond ever becoming a mortician or pathologist, I was just a simple salesman, nothing more. Making my money selling plumbing fixtures of all things. High dollar potties to the rich who had nothing better to do with their money than fret over which shitter fit their ass best.
I came to the conclusion that the perfect necro website didn't exist. I kept trying to find the one, the perfect necro site, but it never
happened. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning, like God talking to Joan of Arc or something else equally prophetic. An
epiphany. I would build that website. I would make the ultimate haven for all the necro freaks out there like me. I would build their Mecca, and the pilgrims would flock to my temple.
It took time of course. I was no master of HTML and I never would be. I learned what I had to. It wasn't
exactly the kind of help you could recruit others into. "Hey Bill, I'm building a necrophilia site, with for real pics of dead chicks, could you help me put it together?" More than likely somebody would have turned me into the authorities. I took a night course at the local community college and set forth on my quest. After weeks, after collecting the first of my images,
laying out my format, I put my site live: FemaleFatalities.com. My masterpiece was under construction, but it was still far from the ultimate site I wanted. Every house had to begin with a
foundation though, and my glorious one was littered with the beautiful bodies of naked women.
I had still shots from the cinema, the best from other sites that had models paid to play dead, but my proudest work, a handful of shots showing real girls in true life death scenes. But it just wasn't enough. I needed more. That's how it all started. That's how I got to be where I am today. I had to start somewhere. I had to let you see the road that took me to this place I am at now. My name is Alexander Morris. My friends, both in the real world and online, know me as Lex. I am a necrophiliac. I am a webmaster. But most importantly, I am in deeper, further and darker than I
ever planned on getting.
(2) The First Meeting
Friday night, bored as hell sitting in my chatroom, Female_Fatalities. Nobody is on. It's after midnight and the whole damned world must be dead, or at least off having a better time than me. Of course I am horny. It always seems to work that way. I have managed to find a handful of girls that will have cyber-snuff-sex with me. But for all I know, it could be some hairy old man in an Iowa farmhouse getting his rocks off on my fantasy. Sitting here now, alone, the light from my computer screen the only sign of life in my room, I crave intimacy.
Somebody pops into the room, "the_colonel has entered the room" the screen reads. My fingers fly across the keyboard.
LEX: good evening colonel
the_colonel: well met LEX
LEX: slow night
the_colonel: bored?
LEX: pretty much...hardly anybody out...at least here tonight...horny as hell and no corpses around
the_colonel: then go out and make one :)
LEX: lol
the_colonel: I like your site
the_colonel: do you take submissions?
LEX: thanks and sure if its good stuff
the_colonel: mine is the best LEX :)
the_colonel: wanna see?
LEX: sure
I lean back in my chair. I don't know how many people I have met in chat that send me either some lame excuse for necro photos or art, or even worse, some pic I have seen a million times already. I think nothing exists I haven't seen. Many of the pieces I have collected at my site. Only the best though, the finest quality. But now, months have passed since I have found anything new or noteworthy. Some of my fans, some of my regs, they've even dropped me emails asking what the hell is up. Maybe that is why the chat room is so empty tonight. My beautiful project sinking slowly in the dark sea of cyberspace. Well, it has been a beautiful journey so far.
the_colonel: check your mail
LEX: okay
the_colonel: it's just what you like LEX
LEX: okay
I bring up my mailbox, LEX@FemaleFatalities.com. One new mail. Hell, nobody's even bothered to email me today. This weekend is going to suck. This colonel guy is going to turn out to be one more lame asshole who doesn't know anything about my tastes and has crappy photos as well. Or maybe he is some FBI agent out to shut down sites like mine. Yeah, that's my luck.
I double click on the new mail and see his little note:
LEX
especially for you - just what your site needs
hang3.jpg
I click the file and it opens. I find myself leaning forward in my chair, my nose almost brushing against the cold glass of the monitor. The picture loads like a tantalizing peep show of death, starting at the top and line by line revealing more with each second. She is blond, her face is dark purple, her eyes, cloudy, maybe blue once. Her head is tilted sharply to one side, and a noose bites into it, the knot tucked securely behind her left ear. Her tongue pokes out from her parted lips. She is naked, her breasts small and upturned. Underneath her belly button she has a small
tattoo, a yin/yang symbol in black and white. Her hands are cuffed and I can see
bruises around her wrists where she has struggled. Her pussy is shaved bare and her legs are long and shapely, tanned and perfect. She is wearing a pair of black high-heeled
sandals, the kind with the strap that wraps around her shin in several crosses. Her toenails are painted black. Another pair of cuffs hang loosely around her ankles, and her feet dangle above an overturned chair on the floor.
I realize I haven't been breathing. I look at the picture again. Definitely real. I have seen re-touched photos, the best that cinema fx has to offer, and the real deal. This is the real deal. The way the rope cuts into the soft flesh of her neck, the way it stretches it. The look on her eyes. I look closer. A small puddle by the chair. Oh my god. I click on my chat with the Colonel again.
LEX: holy shit
the_colonel: I told you you'd like it
LEX: where'd you get that
the_colonel: it's a secret LEX
LEX: that's a for real chick
the_colonel: yes it is, isn't she beautiful
LEX: I've never seen that before
the_colonel: nobody else has either
LEX: holy shit
the_colonel: you said that
LEX: sorry. can I have that? for my site?
the_colonel: I made it just for you LEX along with the others
LEX: others?
the_colonel: there are 5 total LEX
the_colonel: you enjoy and I'll be in touch
LEX: wait!
The screen flashes "the_colonel has left the room" and I sit stunned in his absence. Five more? I remember the filename: hang3.jpg. Then I notice my email going off again and I wonder, who is this guy and what do the other photos look like. I realize I am hard, a steel shaft in my jeans and as I go back to my email, I reach down and begin to unfasten my pants. It's not going to be such a bad night after all.
(3) Dancing On The Edge
The new pictures are holy artifacts drawing the devoted to my electronic shrine of the dead. My email box is full again, and the posting board attached to the site is packed with rave reviews. Hits are off the scale, and traffic continues to soar. For once, I have an exclusive and I am not scavenging some other website looking for new material. That's the good news. The bad news is I cannot contact "the_colonel." His email address shows up as invalid. Everything I email him bounces back as being sent to a bogus address. He is like Santa Claus who magically slipped down my chimney and left me three wonderful gifts under my tree. He is an enigma, and if it weren't for the five jpegs downloaded to my website, I would think it all a wondrous dream. But it is real, a stark
reality punctuated by the three pictures.
I can't stop looking at them. I can't stop daydreaming about the girl, the beauty and grotesqueness of her death an obsession for me. Who is she? What is her name? When did she die? I want to touch her, to be next to her, to run my hands over her cold lifeless flesh. She is just an image to me on the screen, the cold glass of my monitor
separating me from her. But she is real.
A month passes and I have given up on "the_colonel." A thick envelope arrives in the mail, my address printed in bold, black letters with no return identity. I try to keep my real life information secret, but still some people manage to find out. They send me strange shit from time to time. Things like panties stolen from corpses in a funeral home, or so they say. Fans, you have to love them. I don't even give it much consideration as I open the package.
Inside is a VHS tape, a CD-ROM and a brief note, printed in the same black block letters, all caps.
DEAR LEX,
I KNOW YOU ARE CURIOUS. I HOPE THIS HELPS TO ANSWER SOME OF YOUR QUESTIONS. I HAVE GIVEN YOU THINGS YOU COULD TAKE TO THE LAW. I KNOW YOU WON'T. I KNOW YOU WILL CHERISH THEM AS I HAVE. I WILL BE IN TOUCH.
THE COLONEL
It's a difficult decision as I weigh the two items, the VHS in my right hand, the CD-ROM in the left. Finally, I decide to view the tape first. I grab a cold Mountain Dew from the fridge as I head to the living room and pop the tape in the VCR. I wonder at it's contents as I push the play button on the remote. I briefly think of many things it might contain, but I find the truth even more surprising than my wildest imaginings. The first image is of the girl. It is dark and I can hear her. She is crying.
I feel my muscles tightening, and a tingle in my groin. I immediately get hard and find I am leaning forward on my couch. She is standing naked in her high heels on a folding metal chair. It looks like she is in a large, open room. A basement? A warehouse? The details are hard to make out. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, and she is shaking. Cold? Scared? Both? She balls her hands into fists and them flexes them. She sobs and says "Please let me go," in what sounds like a Southern drawl, but it is distorted by the low hum of something in the background, her crying, and
distance from the camera.
A dark figure moves into the picture. He wears all black: trousers, silk shirt, tie and shoes, along with a hood concealing his face, two holes cut out so he can see. Like an executioner. He runs a leather gloved hand down her side, over one hip. She cowers away and almost topples from the chair, and I hear his voice. It's hard to make out the words, but it's a harsh rasp. I rewind and try to hear what he says. Miss it. Do it again. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Then I realize it isn't English at all. German? Russian? Hard to say. I took French in high school and college for all the good it was worth. The only thing I am sure of is it's neither French nor English.
The girl trembles more visibly now and I see his hand firmly grasp the back of the chair. She is begging and sobbing louder now.
"Please...please...do whatever...you want...rape me...please...I don't want to die...please..."
And then like a magician flamboyantly pulling away the cloth to reveal the results of his magic, he tears the chair from beneath her and steps from the view of the camera. The noose has little slack, so she doesn't fall far, but I can see the rope cutting tightly into her neck, pulling it to one side, where the noose is tucked behind her ear. Her body bucks and her cuffed hands immediately come up to dig at the rope, black nails that succeed more in tearing the soft flesh of her neck than harming the thing that cuts off her breath. Her little breasts bounce violently, and her feet dance back and forth. It is like she is running in place, on the air, her toes flexed down sharply,
and I can hear her ragged gasps for air. Her eyes bulge and fix on the camera.
After a moment, her legs come together and she pulls them up waist high and thrusts back down, as if she thinks she can climb on the air to alleviate the pain. Her fingers no longer dig at the rope at her neck but grasp it. She thrusts again. Four times and then kicks again, beginning to spin a little from side to side. At times she swings to reveal more of a profile than a frontal view, accenting the upturned curve of her petite breasts.
I see the piss start running down her long, shapely legs and spatter on the floor. Her hands fall from the rope and make fists again as her arms hang loosely at her sides, and she pulls helplessly at the cups. The metal digs into her flesh. Her legs only move spasmodically, each kick revealing less and less strength. Her face is tinged dark red now, and starting to turn purple. The tip of her tongue slips from her lips, probing for air, like a fish tossed onto the deck of a boat. She hangs still a moment, then kicks. Her hands are tight fists, stretching the chain of the cuffs to its full length. My eyes focus on the yin/yang symbol on her stomach for a moment. The balance of good and evil tattooed on her flesh. She kicks slightly again. Then nothing. Slowly her hands relax and open, and the cuffs jingle as the slack returns to their chain. Death clouds her eyes, and she swings slightly on the rope, a gentle pirouette of death.
I realize I haven't been breathing, and I take in a deep gasp of air. "Holy shit," I say out loud. Minutes pass, her just dangling there, dead, swinging hypnotically from side to side. Something happens off camera and the body collapses, the rope loosed from whatever was holding it. Her body hits the floor with a loud smack, bare flesh on concrete, and she lies in a crumpled mass, almost out of range of the camera. The screen goes black. I sit back and inhale deeply again. My hands are shaking. I start to rewind the video but then glance over at the CD-ROM.
I take the CD in my sweaty hands and stumble to my computer. I fumble the disc into the computer and load it up. It is filled with jpegs. I click on the first, and the next then another. All still shots, from the video. Some of them close ups. My hands shake as they hover over the keyboard. In the background he must have had a digital camera in addition to his video camera.
When the phone rings, I almost fall out of my seat. Startled back to the real world. I take a deep breath before answering trying to steady the quaver I expect in my voice. When I answer, "Hello," I sound mostly in control. For a minute, silence.
"Good evening, Lex." The voice is heavy with an accent. East European. Russian?
"Um...yes?"
"You know who this is Lex?"
"Um...the Colonel?"
He laughs slightly, something more menacing than humorous, "Very good Lex. You liked my gift?"
I lose my voice temporarily, "Y...yes."
"It's okay Lex. I understand. I am glad it excites you so. But it is only the beginning Lex. Only the beginning. Wait until the next step."
I try to say, "Wait!" but the phone clicks before I can. Does he know I just watched the video, or is it a coincidence? Who is he? Where is he? I sit back and look at my screen, a close up shot of the girl crying before he ripped the chair from under her. Who is she? And what is the next step?
(4) Dark Dreams
Finally I sleep, after watching the video over and over. It's like a drug and I can't get enough. I am an addict, and none of the drugs I have experienced before take me close to this. I sleep and I dream.
I dream of Shannon. Shannon was the last major relationship I had, a little over a year ago. At first I thought I was in heaven. Shannon was dark skinned, tall. A little light on the breast side, but she had a killer tan, and these
potty lips that you just wanted to kiss again and again. Short, raven black hair she wore in a cute bob, and stark green eyes. Something exotic about her. I think she told me her grandfather was from Greece. Maybe Italy. Somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Like most things that seem to good to be true, she was. Shannon spent her younger years in parochial school, and even now, in her sophomore year in college, studying communications, she was still a devout Catholic. I don't know how I ever got in her pants the first time. It's all still kind of fuzzy, too much wine. I learned really quick though she lacked creativity in bed. Missionary style was it for her, and forget a blowjob. For someone who had such a great sense of humor and so much intelligence, she was a dud in bed. Yeah, I always got off, I mean, after all, it was a tight, warm, wet hole. But as for doing anything even remotely bizarre? No way.
I finally got the balls to ask her about playing out one of my fantasies one time. That happened the night before we broke up. I can't say it was all based on that, but I still remember the look of horror on her face. She just couldn't understand. Most people don't. At first she thought I was joking. Then she called me a "sick fuck" and a "pervert" and several other things. The next day she came over to get all her CDs she let me borrow. Then it was over.
I dream about her now, feel her laying beside me. In my dream, I roll over and wrap my arm around her naked body. Her flesh is cold and at first I recoil in a bit of shock. I whisper her name, "Shannon?" She faces away from me and I reach to roll her over. Her head lolls over lifelessly and I look down into her green eyes staring up at me, but not seeing me. Her lips are tinged blue. Shannon is dead. I am not repulsed by her, I feel myself growing hard. I bend close, looking deep into her unseeing eyes. My lips approach hers and my heart thuds in anticipation of kissing her corpse. Only millimeters
separate our lips and...
The alarm blares like a klaxon announcing doomsday. I flail trying to find the snooze button and see the green LED numerals
declaring 6:30. Fuck it. I force myself up. I'll have a Mountain Dew and call in today. No way am I facing cranky plumbers and leaky faucets today. Somebody else can have the glory of that duty. I head for the fridge.
***
After calling in I lay low all day. Watch the video some more, and start to upload the pictures to the site. It's sort of wierd, because at first I don't want to. They are mine, nobody
else's. The minute they are on the site, others will download them, maybe put them on other websites, print them out, hang them on their wall. They'll become public property, but for now they are mine. I have to do it though. I have to share them. The video will remain mine.
Days pass by again. Work is a distraction. I never really liked my job, and now, I start to hate it. A couple of times I come close to loading up my website and looking at some of the nameless dead girl's pictures. That would be a bad idea. They closely monitor those things at work. I am sure my boss wouldn't be very impressed. "So, Alexander, been checking out dead girls instead of keying in your orders I see..."
It's Thursday, almost two weeks after the tape arrived, and I'm sitting at my desk at work, bored as hell, working up a bid on some bed and breakfast when the little window pops up on my screen: "You've received a new mail message. Would you like to read it now? YES / NO ." What the hell. I click yes.
I have a different email address at work than I do at home. I have never let the two sides of my life cross. Lex the website building necrophile never encounters Alexander the salesman. The subject line on the email reads "LEX." It's from "the_colonel" but at a different domain than
the first time.
My breath catches in my throat and my hand trembles. How in the hell did he find my work address? I glance over my shoulder to make sure nobody is looking. All obliviously going about their daily deeds. Clueless. I click on the new mail. It's a simple message, written in the same style as before:
LEX
HER NAME IS HEATHER. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW. I'LL BE IN TOUCH
THE COLONEL
"Holy shit," I mutter to myself, then forward the mail along to my home address. "Heather," I whisper. The dead girl's name is Heather. It makes it more intimate for me, and I feel myself growing hard as I sit at my desk. I'll watch the video again when I get home. I know it'll be different again because I know her name. Heather.
***
I finish watching the video again. It is a new experience now. I swear when he was talking to her I
heard him say her name, "Heather." It was twisted by his accent. I rewound it three times and listened and I am sure he did. I yawn and sit back on the couch, tired from an unusual rush of business late in the day.
The phone rings and startles me. I must have dozed off. It rings again, loud in the silence of my
apartment. I wonder who is calling. Hardly anybody calls me anymore. My life away from the internet is the life of a zombie. Somebody who gets up and follows the same routine every morning, goes through the programmed motions of his job, then comes home and finishes his day with yet another standard routine. It is when I sit at the keyboard, working on my website, talking to my friends, that I truly exist. Alexander is a boring nobody. Lex is the lord of darkness, the dark phantom haunting the far corners of cyberspace. Or something like that.
I answer the phone, "Hello?"
"Lex."
It's the Colonel, his accent distinct in the one syllable of my name. I gulp, "Yes?"
"Do I make you nervous Lex?"
"Um...no."
"It is not my desire to make you nervous Lex. I only want to help you. Help you find what you seek."
I remind myself to breathe, "Okay."
I can hear a smile color his words now. "Good Lex. I am your friend. The best friend you will ever meet. You do want to meet me don't you Lex?"
My heart is pounding like a bass drum, one continuous thud that threatens to blow the top off of my skull, "Yes."
"Good, listen closely Lex. We will meet tomorrow night, I will give you the time and place."
I listen to him talk as he tells me how to reach the restaurant for our rendezvous. I grab a piece of paper and scribble down notes, barely able to write the way my hand is shaking.
"You will be there Lex?"
"Yes."
"I would be disappointed if you weren't," and then the phone clicks and is dead. Again, the Colonel is gone as fast as he appeared. I look down at the note and the words written there. A cafe called The Bohemian. I know the place. It's a nice restaurant downtown with a European atmosphere, tables outside of it on the sidewalk. Friday night. The Bohemian. The Colonel.
(5) Faces In The Night
A fine mist of rain falls, painting the streets gloss black, casting a halo around the streetlights. It's a warm summer rain, and it patters loudly on the red and white striped canvas awning hanging over the tables outside the Bohemia. I am drinking my second Michelob and the Colonel is twenty minutes late. I look at the last bit of beer in the bottle. When it's gone I am
gone.
"Lex, my sincere apologies."
Chills creep across the back of my neck, and I feel cold even in the warm summer rain. He steps around the table. A black trench coat hangs from his shoulders, a black fedora on his head. He takes the hat off and puts it on the table as he sits. His features are old, weathered, the face of a man who has seen many things, done many things. I guess he is in his late 40's early 50's. His eyes are two chips of slate, and a scar creases the flesh of his left cheek. He wears black leather gloves on his hands, and a chunky gold Rolex.
I lean forward, "Colonel?"
He smiles, something sardonic about it for a moment as he reaches into his coat to pull out a cigarette case. It's polished surface reflects the candle light on our table. The tiny flame dances like a soul trapped inside the metal. He lights the cigarette with a match and offers me one as well. I shake my head no.
"You thought I wasn't coming?"
I struggle with what to say.
"It's okay Lex. I understand. I had some things to tend to. And the traffic, perfectly awful this
evening. A little rain and everybody suddenly forgets how to drive."
He waves his cigarette dismissively as he finishes his sentence and smiles slightly again. "Do you always talk so much Lex?"
I stammer, "Oh...yeah...well...just surprised. To see you."
He chuckles, "Well Lex, it's not as if you are meeting for supper with some celebrity. Just me."
I nod.
"And I am sure you are wondering why you are here?"
"Yes."
"Good. Curiosity is a good thing. Then I will tell you why."
He leans forward, sliding something across the table to me. When he removes his hand, I see a small sliver of paper, something folded up many times.
"It's the next step Lex. If you're ready to take it. You are aren't you?"
"The next step?"
"Take the paper. Follow the directions. You'll see. Just don't stumble now Lex. You are so close. You are walking a path so few have the courage to do. But you. You are different Lex."
His eyes wander the crowd a moment as he talks to me, as if he is determining if somebody is watching our discrete rendezvous. I reach out and take the paper into my hand, nervously turning it over and over in my palm.
"So, Lex, are you game?"
"Um...sure."
He moves fast, fluidly, striking like a rattlesnake. His leather gloved hand grips mine tightly. "This is not a time to falter in your conviction Lex. You are almost past the point of turning back. If you aren't sure, throw that paper away now."
"I...I'm sure."
He smiles again and sits back, "Good. Very good. I knew you were. I just sensed you weren't sure of
yourself. You see, we often deny our dark side Lex. And why? For the moral standards of society. We fear the darkest corners of our psyche because those around us tell us it is wrong to embrace it, to explore it. Just remember, it is a very personal and very rewarding journey Lex."
I nod.
"You are a smart boy. Look, you know what you must do. I wanted to deliver this to you by hand, make myself more real to you. I am glad I did. It has been a pleasure. But I must go. You enjoy what I have given you."
"Wait!"
He crushes out his cigarette as his cold eyes affix me, "Yes?"
"Who...who are you?"
He stands and places his hat back on his head, a head of black hair with a receding hairline that ends in a widow's peak. "I am the master Lex. And you, you are the apprentice."
He spins on the heel of his shoe then, and walks out into the rain. I unfold the paper and look at it. Directions to a place. Somewhere outside the city. I think. What awaits me? Do I stop now? Or do I go? I fold up the paper and make my way back to my car.
***
As I drive the rain falls harder, and thunder begins to accompany it. The black silk of the sky is split with a silver tongue of lightening from time to time. The weather makes it harder for me to find the place, but I am committed now, and as the Colonel said, there is no turning back. City streets finally turn into dirt country roads, trees scrape the side of the car and pot holes jostle me from side to side. After nearly two hours of driving I arrive. A
dilapidated barn standing in a barren, overgrown field.
I pull my coat over my head and dash into the barn. Several bare bulbs dangle from the rafters and provide limited illumination. The smell of rot and old hay fills the air. The damp odor of the rain wafts in as well, mildew, decay... something else. The directions end there. I toss the piece of paper on the ground and look around.
"Hello?" I call out. Only the thunder answers me. I begin to search the area. Several stalls still stand inside the barn and as I step around one, I find why the Colonel has sent me. A blue tarp covers something, and from the end of it I see two feet. The nails on the feet are painted a dark maroon color, and on the right ankle I see the
tattoo of a rose. My heart thuds like a machine gun and for a minute I feel like the barn spins around me.
Slowly I walk towards the tarp and the figure beneath it. I notice the middle toe of her right foot has a silver ring around it. I reach down to the corner of the tarp and pull it back. A gasp escapes me unwillingly as I look at the prize on the ground. A woman, 30-ish from her looks. Tall and pale. Her hair is long and coppery red. Her eyes which stare hollowly at the loft above are ice blue, clouded over in death. The tip of her tongue protrudes between bold red lips painted in
garish lipstick. The corpse is naked, with generous hips and well rounded breasts, her mid-section slightly pudgy, but in a sexy way. A gold ring pierces her navel. Her hands are open, palm up at
her sides, and a thin mark encircles her throat. Not the mark of a rope, thinner, slighter than that. Some sort of cord, a
garrote perhaps. Her face is discolored by asphyxia, purplish, dark and bruised around the area where the cord strangled her. In one of her upturned palms, as if she is offering it as a gift to me, a full tube of K-Y jelly.
I kneel beside her and run my hand over her cool flesh. It is soft, and I grow hard in my pants. I
touch first her right breast, then her left, pinching her unresponsive nipples hard. I want to fuck her so bad. This dead woman whose name I don't know. More than I ever wanted any living, breathing woman, I want her. Part of me screams to turn around and run the hell out of this place, but another voice says take her, fuck her, violate her. I give in and bend to kiss her. Her tongue is cold and rough, inhuman, and I force mine into her mouth, and
her retracts. My tongue dances around in the cavity of her mouth, tasting the dryness inside. No saliva, just the roughness of her tongue.
My hand slides down her abdomen, over the belly button ring, through the thick thatch of red hair between her legs then over the lips of her pussy. My middle finger finds it's way inside of her dead clit. I have to force it inside of her. She is tight, unlubricated. "Holy shit," I say.
I stand up and look around. Is this a dream? A nightmare? A wish come true? She stares up at the
ceiling, oblivious to me, to the world. Her mouth is ajar now, her tongue pressed back in by my strong kiss. I practically tear my clothes off, tossing them away haphazardly, breathing hard, my heart thundering in my ears. I grab the lubricant from her hand and squeeze it onto me, spilling it onto the hay as well. I fall on her and she is cold, so cold and limp beneath me. I kiss her again, probing the inside of her dead mouth with my tongue.
Slowly I guide my dick inside of her, the K-Y making it easy for me to slide into her lifeless pussy. I groan in pleasure and pound into her. Her body shakes with the impact of my thrusts, her breasts bouncing in
rhythm. I lean back, looking down at her. She just lays there, her hollow eyes staring up. They are ice blue beneath a milky haze. I reach down and rub at the red of her lips, erasing the lip stick. I find her lips blue beneath, and bend to kiss them again. My mouth over her dead mouth, my dick in her dead pussy. I thrust harder, faster, raising again. I wrap my hands
around her dead throat and squeeze it. She lays there. I reach down and lace my fingers between the dead ones of her hands. They are limp in response.
I stop and slide out of her, my breathing labored. The thunder crashes loudly outside and the rain comes down in a torrent. The roof of the barn is tin and it sounds like it is hailing now. I don't care. I don't care what happens. I lift her legs up onto my shoulders and slide into her again. I slam, in and out and the aftershock of my fucking her causes her breasts to bounce more violently, her head lolling from side to side, her arms to bouncing slightly.
Then I am cumming in the corpse, in the red head's dead pussy, spilling myself deep inside of her. I cry out like a warrior in battle then fall from her. She simply lies there still. Staring upwards. I touch her cold face again. It's early in the night. I can't leave now. The storm is too intense. The girl is too
beautiful. I must possess her again.
As the thunder booms outside, I wrap myself around her body. I press my lips to her unhearing ear and whisper to her, "It'll be okay. I'll protect you. I'll make love to you while it storms." And before I do, I just lay there, holding her, my face pressed against the soft red of her hair.
(6) Down The Rabbit Hole
I dream of her now, cold against me. She sleeps with me in my bed, in a perpetual state of death, never rotting, never decaying. A perfect and beautiful corpse. Never asking anything. Staring up quietly waiting for me to ravage her again.
Weeks have passed. I left her there the morning after. Trodding breathlessly through the mud that surrounded the barn. I cut a lock of her red hair, and when I wake up, I see it on the pillow beside me. I reach over to touch it, remembering her. Where is she now? Buried somewhere? Still in the barn? Should I go back? No, I know if she is still there, it is a bloated, stinking mess I will find now. The flesh rots so soon, and the beautiful peace of passing gives way to the leering decay of death. I have no phone number for the Colonel, no email address that works. I am at his mercy when it comes to contact.
I ponder why he has given me this. Why he leads me on this course. Why he has made me his apprentice. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the red head there. I wonder how she died. Where. What was she thinking as the
garrote squeezed the last of her breath from her body. What was her name.
It's Saturday morning. I lay in bed, running the soft lock of hair against my cheek, lost in reverie of what it was like to fuck her. The intensity. Like comparing
masturbation to real sex. Beyond the imagination. She had been the perfect lover. "I want you," I whisper to her in my mind's eye.
The phone jars me back to reality.
"Hello."
Silence.
"Hello?"
"Lex," the East European accent distinct.
"Colonel..."
"I am glad you enjoyed yourself Lex. I am sure Rebecca had fun as well."
"Rebecca..."
I hear his trademark slight chuckle, sinister humor, "Or, 'Becca to the few friends she had. Do you like red heads Lex?"
"Yes." I feel like I am lost in some dream, floating beyond the real world in another dimension.
"They have never been much to my taste. But I like variety Lex. Variety is a necessity. Variety overcomes mediocrity."
"Yes."
"I am worried about you Lex."
It takes me a moment to assimilate the statement. "What? You're worried? About me?"
"Yes," he says, his tone laced with sincerity. "I am afraid I have pushed you too far, too fast."
I sit bolt upright in the bed, "Wait, don't hang up on me!"
"But Lex, you are still new, still fragile. I don't want to break you."
I shake my head violently, even though he can't see me, "No man. Don't fuck me. I am ready. I am goddamn ready for whatever you have. That was intense. In-fucking-tense. I want more. You have to give me more."
The chuckle. "You don't sound in control Lex."
I take a deep breath, "I am totally in control Colonel."
He sighs. "Okay Lex, I am taking your word on this. But the next step is even greater. It is the final test Lex."
"I'm ready."
"Are you sure? You have no doubts? Once you follow the white rabbit down the hole Lex, there is no turning back. It is no fairy tale Lex. You have to want to do this. I warn you Lex, be sure, absolutely sure it is what you want."
I am standing now, pacing, running my fingers through my hair, craving an ice cold Mountain Dew, "I fucking want it. I want it!"
"Okay, okay, listen very closely Lex, very closely."
And I listen. Then I grab a notepad and begin to write down what he says.
***
I lost my job this week. My boss fired me, told me he never wanted to see me again. I just couldn't get to work on time. I kept thinking of her. I kept screwing up orders. I couldn't even stay away from my website. He threw all that shit in front of me when I went into his office. Wednesday? Thursday? I am not even sure what day it is anymore. "You sick little fuck," he said. Familiar words. If he only knew the truth. I laugh as I drive through the night.
The Colonel has given me a new destination. This one is in town. Commercial district. I drive through a maze of warehouses, surrounded by chainlink and razorwire. The stout figures of dobermans and rottweilers patrol many of the places. I don't care about my job. I don't care about my rent, my bills, nothing. I only know I need more of what he has. I am a junkie, and he is my dealer. I am buying death from the grim reaper. I rub my chin as I try to make sure I turn down the right street and realize I haven't shaved in...many days. How long I can't recall. My hair is a mess, and I am completely disheveled.
At the end of the street I am on I find the warehouse. It's a small facility, and the tall fences that surround many of the buildings are absent there. It is small and unassuming, lost in the midst of the big facilities around it. I park outside and walk towards it's door. I thrust my trembling hands into my pants pockets and try to control my breathing. Will it be another red head? A blonde? As I wrap my hand around the cold metal of the doorknob I close my eyes and think a moment. I pray for the door not to be locked. It opens when I turn the knob.
Dim light inside. One big room, and something in the middle of it. I approach. I see a video camera on a tripod, pointed at the thing in the middle of the room. I stop, unable to breath as I make it out. My heart skips and I have to think to start breathing again. It is Shannon.
She stands on a metal chair, just like the girl in the first video. She is naked except for a pair of black high heeled pumps. Her breasts are white in stark contrast to the dark tan of her olive flesh, along with the thin stripes over her hips where the bottom of her bikini rides. Her pubic hair is a narrow band of black. Even in the dim light I see her green eyes reflect desperation and she mumbles against gray masking tape that covers her mouth. A noose hangs around her neck and extends up to a spot where it is secured to a metal beam along the ceiling.
"Holy shit," I mumble, slowly walking towards her. I see the video camera's record light is on. I step within grasping range of her and look up at her. She is more beautiful than I remember, and venom fills her eyes. It adds to her allure. Her hands are clasped behind her in cuffs, and she twists in protest, trying not to topple herself from her perch. I reach up to her face and she starts to recoil, almost falls and reconsiders, standing still. I rip the tape from her lips and toss it to the floor.
"Lex, you sick little fuck. Is this your idea of a fucking joke? I'll have your ass in fucking prison for this. Is this how you get even with me? You were a total fucking waste of my time you little turd. Why did I even stay with you? My mother told me you were worthless. What in god's name was I thinking. Get me down from here before I scream."
I nod and reach to her as she rolls her bright green eyes. I firmly grasp the back of the chair and those same cocky eyes bulge as I rip the chair from beneath her. The noose pulls taught and then her foot kicks me with the force of a baseball bat. Her shoe flies across the room and I hit the floor. Blood pours into my mouth and I look up at her. The rope has several inches of slack in it, enough to almost let her feet touch the floor. Her other shoe flies off as she kicks violently, flexing her toes down to try to reach the dirty concrete of the warehouse floor.
She spins and convulses and gasps, and I can hear the clink of the handcuffs as she tries uselessly to break them. I stand and walk to her. Green eyes plead to me as tears pour from them. I unbuckle my pants and I can see her mouth work hard to produce words. I let them fall from my waist. Reaching out, I grab her ass and pull her onto my dick. I am surprised she is so wet. Her legs push her away from me but I wrench her back, digging my nails into the soft flesh of her ass. I shove my dick hard into her. She wraps her legs tightly around my waist, trying to relieve the tension in the noose but failing. Tears stream down her cheeks, black streaks of mascara.
I am lost in her, an animal devouring it's prey. Nothing else exists. Only Shannon and me. Her eyelids flutter and her tongue probes from between her lips.
"Bitch!" I say to her. "You like it? You like it don't you?"
Her legs squeeze against me harder, and my dick sinks deeper into her. Maybe she does, maybe she is getting off. The pain becoming her pleasure. Her only answer is a sick, wet gurgle. Her face is deep red, her eyes unfocused. Her pussy convulses wildly around my dick. I fuck her harder.
Her back arches, the way it used to when she would cum. She pisses all over me, a shower of golden liquid running down her hips and mine. She convulses rapidly, hard. Is she getting off? Her eyes roll back in her head and she hangs limply. Her legs fall from around me and the only thing holding her against me now is my own strength and I continue to pound her. She hangs above the floor, suspended by the noose, her head tilted sharply to the right by it's strangling hold, her eyes staring over my shoulder, the tip of her tongue poking from between her two
potty lips. Then I cum, I cry out, filling her.
The door crashes in and I spin, spilling my sperm and semen onto the cold floor of the building. I have never seen a SWAT entry team face to face before, but now, the masked faces and armored bodies brandishing submachineguns focus on me.
"Freeze!" somebody yells.
"Police!" somebody screams.
I am being pushed down, forced into handcuffs, being read my rights. I see Shannon out of the corner of my eye, dangling
lifelessly from the noose. "Holy shit," I manage and feel somebody's knee dig into my spine. The cuffs tear the flesh of my wrists.
"Jesus, cut her down," somebody says.
(6) Finale
The days pass as I sit in jail. They have evidence against me. The tape from my apartment. They mention a body buried in a field. They take blood from me. Talk about DNA testing. And they have Shannon, fresh and dead hanging from a rope. Me, holding a proverbial smoking gun. I don't answer questions, I just stare and think of them. Heather. Rebecca. Shannon.
Time is meaningless, so I don't know how much of it has passed when he comes.
The guards hate me. Serial killers don't get much respect from the cops. One of them steps to the door, a dark figure behind him, "You've got a visitor freak."
He walks off and leaves him standing there. The man. Black fedora, black long coat. "Lex."
I step to the bars, "You bastard."
He shakes his head, "Come now Lex. Didn't I give you all you ever wanted? Didn't I make your fantasy a reality? Bring all your dreams to fruition?"
I seethe, "You put me in here!"
"No Lex. You did. I only gave you what you wanted."
I look at him. The Colonel. I don't even know his name, know who he really is. My dark angel, my bringer of dreams and damnation. I can only think of one thing to say, "Why?"
The sardonic smile twists his lips again, "It had to be somebody Lex. Me, or somebody like you. They were too close Lex, and my work is far from over. I let you be my apprentice, but now, now you must pay the price. And what a good apprentice you were Lex. You should be proud of yourself."
"Bastard!"
"Farewell Lex," he says and turns away.
"You fucking bastard!" he is immune to my insults. The guard raps the bars with his nightstick. My hands were gripping them, and he draws blood to my knuckles.
"Shut up freak, " the guard says.
I sit and put my head in my hands. I feel something wet on my palms and realize I am sobbing quietly.
***
I am in the dark now, alone. Only with their faces in my mind. I remember each of them, and how they felt, how they touched a part of me. The gifts the Colonel gave me, and now, the admission for the ride he took me on. Would I change this course if I had the chance? Would I have jumped this train if I had known it's final destination? Now, pondering it all again, staring at myself in a steel mirror, I know the answer. The Colonel is my tormentor, but ultimately, he is my benefactor, my guide, my mentor and my betrayer. They can take my freedom, my possessions, even my life. But they can never take them from me. Heather. Rebecca. Shannon. They will always be mine. And as I sit here alone now, I wonder how many more there will be. How many more will the Colonel meet and make his own. What will they look like? What will their final breath be like, their final thoughts? What
are their names? I abhor him. I hate him. I detest him. I envy him. I hope maybe one day, he will come to see me again and tell me about them.
THE END
Copyright by TLOD (2002).