The Story That Ruined Life As I Knew It

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

Right, so long story short (long version in is my thread at the LSD area), i wrote this story for a friend of mine, & due to circumstances i'm still having trouble fathoming, it eventually got my kicked out of school, ostrocized by my friends, cost me the girl i was in love with & ruined my life in about every possible way. this all happened involving betrayl, revenge, malice & just plain evil in mind. now, i want your opinion: was it fucking worth it? people have been telling me it's good, & i just need a fucking ego boost not to mention find out if it really is good. it's a dark type thing, i've been told by one board member it's almost Pulp Fiction-like, so i'll rip that off. but it's got evil, dark comedy, sex, profanity & a random name of a couple former friends (again, see the other thread). i happen to think it sucks, but i never like my stuff. & yes, i bastardized wrestlers names, because i was that hard up for ideas.

 

PRT 1:

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Prologue

 

Amanda Gail screamed once more. She couldn’t help it; the fear & panic had gotten to her, she knew. Amanda was cold. She’d been without clothes for at least three days now; she couldn’t judge the time since her abduction. The only thing she could judge, however, was fear. Fear of both the setting & her captor: the man in the mask.

Amanda couldn’t help but remember Kiss the Girls, the James Patterson novel, not the shitty movie. How Casanova, the principal villain, stole the girls away & hid them underground until the dramatic rescue. Amanda thought briefly that this…this creature who kidnapped her, might be some sort of copycat of the story; someone who got their rocks off living out some fictionalized fantasy. Some deranged fuck that thought it would be fun to act on the story.

 

The music started again.

 

“Strawberry Fields Forever”. Amanda didn’t know why, but Beatles music seemed to always play. Like her captor was an addict, & Lennon/McCartney his heroin. But she did know what “Strawberry Fields” meant: it meant he was coming.

Amanda was raped once. Only once. This confused her, if for no other reason than she was expecting something more…traumatic. Getting raped once had scarred her tremendously, she concluded, but she expected to be tortured more in that manner than she was. The man-the creature-wasn’t the strongest, but strong enough to force her around. Amanda remembered what had happened afterwards; how she yelled at him. How she told him what he was-shit. The captor was so angered he slapped her as hard as she thought he could. Amanda felt her cheek, & felt blood. He hadn’t just slapped her, he’d cut her. Like he had claws. He truly was a creature, she thought. He then tied her to a chair, & took his frustrations out on her right hand. The pain blocked the memory away mostly…but the stub where her middle finger had once been, as well as the warped knuckle where the object-perhaps a mallet, she thought-crushed it, remained. His form quickly shown in the light at the top of the stairs. Amanda didn’t know whether to be scared or relived. The captor, with his $2.00 ski mask glistening, knew that it was time to end it. End Amanda Gail’s pain.

 

 

“Fucking shit!” Gabriel Morrison yelled to no one. It had been a good week since he had ended Amanda Gail’s worthless life, & three to four days after removing the body. But the cellar still smelt of death. Gabe hated that smell, but he knew that the kill had to formant; that all delicacies needed time to absorb the natural juices. He had removed her piece by piece; first the legs, then the arms, then the torso, then the head. The head in fact was on a slow boil as Gabriel Morrison thought. Maybe I could get someone to come in & fumigate the fucking place, he thought. He quickly decided against it; he hated, hated killing men. Moreover, he hated killing men he had to pay for. Men provided too much of a fair fight when the time came, he figured. What advantage does one have when wanting to kill a man? A gun? Knife? Sixty-eight Buick? Gabe didn’t know, nor did he especially care. Although, the topic of thought made him hungry, so he went to the fridge & ate a pickled finger. He savored it sickly. Then he also remembered he had a third of a Federal Express man on the defroster, which made him groan. UPS tasted nice with a fine red wine, but Fed-Ex? Gabe finally said, “Fuck it” & made a Spamburger for dinner.

 

 

1

 

Brett McCabe hated his job. Of all the ones he could have been, he was a cop. People hated cops; they reminded them that people were watching them. The interest was gone for Brett, but he worked anyway. What else could he do? Regardless, he was what he was: a cop. Or more accurately, a suspended cop. Brett had taken it upon himself to do what he did best: dispense “Dirty Harry justice”, as his lieutenant put it. In other words, he’d catch criminals, but end up killing ten more than that. This particular suspension involved the death of a suspected “angel of death”, or killer of the elderly (“A fucking freak”, as Brett referred to him in his report). Brett went to the man’s home, & was greeted to a knife to the shoulder & a crazed male nurse in pajamas. Brett reacted as only he thought necessary: by blowing the fuck out of him with his gun, a .44 Magnum (another “Dirty Harry” reference, which he always found ironic). The shoulder was only stabbed shallowly, & healed faster than expected. Brett was restless, & got suspended. After giving a tired sigh, Brett sat down to watch a little “Conan O’Brien”. They had one of his favorite vice’s legends on tonight-

Naturally, the phone rang. Brett didn’t need to think about who it was. It was late, a Friday, & unless his boss wanted to offer to lick his nuts as Brett had told her, he knew exactly who it was.

 

“Okay, where are you?” Brett asked irritated. He knew it was his daughter, Leelee.

“Umm…” Leelee replied drunkenly. “Mikki’s. I’m sorry dad, no one could give me a ride & I’m soooo drunk right now,” She cackled, in an intoxicated bliss. Brett, at that moment, envied her.

“Fine, be there in twenty,” Leelee of course hung up right after this statement.

 

As Brett drove toward the house of Mikki Cronin, he thought about his daughter as usual. He always thought Mikki was a very nice girl, just a little wild. But Leelee’s mother couldn’t stand her; in fact she even went as far as calling her a “vulgar whore” one night, to which Leelee spat in her plate of linguini. Brett actually encouraged Leelee to hang out with Mikki. He felt, simply, that she should learn from her mistakes, not to mention get all the wild shit out of her system before life officially starts for her. The last thing he wanted was seeing Leelee appear on a “Girls Gone Wild” commercial. Brett also drifted to the thought that when he was a senior in high school, he didn’t drink half as much as she did. Being a father, he often wondered about her being an alcoholic slut who would blow a guy for a pint of Coors. Then realism crept in, & Brett had arrived at Mikki Cronin’s house.

Rave music blared. Brett didn’t get it: in his day, fifteen-twenty or so years prior, he could get stoned, drunk or laid to just Steppenwolf singing “Magic Carpet Ride”, but now it was shit like Daft Punk. After a second of feeling incredibly old, Leelee found him. Brett picked her up over his shoulder, thanked an amazingly sober Mikki, then dumper his daughter in the back seat. Mikki ran out to give him her purse, which he tossed back with her. As Leelee laid passed out in the back seat, Brett flipped the radio on, only to hear “Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf. Fucking irony, he thought.

 

This was the standby weekend routine for Brett & Leelee. After a rough week at school (& a rougher week at home) Leelee would go unwind at Mikki or someone else’s house. Then at some ungodly hour, she’d call Brett to pick her up. Simple enough. Brett suspected he knew why it was always him who got the call, not her mother. Leelee had been in the middle of a painful divorce, in which her mother, Veronica Hicks, gained custody. Veronica’s husband, local truck tycoon Grant Hicks, took it upon himself to adopt Leelee as a birthday present (speculation over how this happened was debated; one half thought a form had to be signed by the child, the other just thought Hicks was a douche bag). Leelee hated both her mother & stepfather, & didn’t even see Brett due to a court order for the next few years. When they reunited, they fell in love with each other. Leelee & Brett together was hell on wheels, & the Hicks’ knew it. Brett was trying to gain full custody via a messy legal battle, which was rightly considered ill-advised, as Leelee was a good few months away from the big one-eight.

The beauty of his daughter often struck Brett. He noticed this night as Leelee was vomiting in the guest bathroom toilet (he hoped. God did he hope). Her blue eyes shined like diamonds under her glasses, & her red hair was long & flowed in curls down her back & breast. Leelee was smart as a whip, which always disheartened Brett. Sometimes people can be too smart for their own good. He knew nothing about her personal life, despite trying to quietly pick things up. He even almost offered Mikki Cronin fifty dollars a week to work as private detective. But she needed her space, just as Brett needed his.

As Leelee slept in the small guest bedroom, Brett got things ready for work the next day. He cleaned his gun (which he dubbed “Sledgehammer”, after the old eighties cop show), & went to sleep to the wonderful sounds of World Championship Wrestling’s Great American Bash 1996.

 

 

2

 

Michelle Bennett was an interesting woman, although she never knew why she was told this. She was a writer & part time counselor, which was impressive. Her current project, Diary of a Hill’s Angel, was going pretty smooth.

“Motherfucking asshole cocksucker!” Michelle yelled at the computer. She had writers block, which was always an interesting problem for her, as she rarely got it. To add to the madness, Eminem’s “Marshall Mathers LP” was playing the background. To the uninitiated, this-with the swearing beauty, the writer’s block & Eminem-might seem like a form of chaos. But to Michelle, this was life in all its glory. She shuddered at that prospect.

Michelle had no idea what the current story was about. Hell, she wasn’t sure a fucking Hill’s Angel was, either. But she just wrote. The words, & later the story itself, came to her later. Or at least it usually did. She hoped it would this time. With the current shit in her life, she figured, it wouldn’t have trouble. Her fiancé, Scott Levy, a local artist, had left her for another woman. Better than another man, I guess, Michelle would think often. The pain in her heart still lingered, she knew, but it was quite understandable. Michelle was strong, proclaimed by everyone who’d knew her, & would get through it eventually. But it was hard, as expected. Vulnerability was part of the romantic healing process, she figured, & it was natural to question everything after being tossed aside by the one you love. As this thought passed by, as it did often, the doorbell rang. Michelle didn’t take notice at first, but she did the second time, & went to answer it.

 

“Bet you thought you got rid of me, huh?” Brenda Marshall said jokingly. Michelle was taken aback. Brenda was her sister; the youngest of the seven Bennett kids, & the one Michelle was closer to than anyone in the whole world. She had moved to San Francisco from San Paulo roughly five years earlier & Michelle had barely seen her.

“Bren!” Michelle nearly squeaked in shock. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Brenda got more serious. “Well, after all that’s happened…I…I just didn’t feel comfortable there, you know? I needed to live somewhere else, at least for awhile.” Brenda had just gone through the messiest of messy divorces with her abusive husband Steve Marshall. He was an alcoholic, & spent seemingly every spare moment to make Brenda’s life a living hell. He hit her regularly, told her what a bitch she was & how she ruined his life & what an ugly person she was. He had tried to kill her a few months prior. Brenda still sported the scar under her left eye where Steve had slashed the steak knife.

“I understand,” Michelle said somberly. “Come in! God, I haven’t seen you in ages!” & the mood was once again jovial. It usually went that way between them.

 

“How are you feeling, Michelle?” Brenda asked over some coffee. She had wanted to ask for a while, but it was another sensitive issue. “How’re you…coping, I guess?”

“Oh god,” Michelle said with a fake laugh & through clenched teeth. This one of her more famous mannerisms. “Coping? Well, I haven’t killed myself yet. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.” She laughed slyly.

“You do,” Brenda retorted, both seriously & jokingly. “And I swear after I get done crying, I’ll beat your ass.”

Michelle laughed slightly. “Well, don’t worry. I won’t do that anytime soon,” Michelle thought a second, and then nearly burst into tears. “I loved him, Bren,”

“I know,” Brenda assured. “I know. It’ll be okay, honey. It’ll be okay. If anyone can get through, it’s you.”

“Yeah,” Michelle wiped a tear from her eye. “I will. You will too.”

Brenda lightly rubbed the scar under her eye. A tear shone in her eye. “I will. I will.” After a pause, Brenda finally said, “Enough of this bluesy bullshit. Wanna do something?”

“Not today. Gotta write, write, write!” Michelle laughed.

“Yeah, the book,” Brenda said cautiously. “How’s it coming?”

“Ehhaa,” Michelle groaned, hoping to get off the subject. Another trademark.

“That good, huh?”

“You know it. Slower than an elderly fat man on free sample day at Safeway.”

 

They bantered & talked about everything from President Bush looking like a chimp to why Chandler on “Friends” was a homosexual. Then Brenda had to go: the movers were arriving to her new place & she had to meet them. Michelle would have asked her to go anyway; she had a client coming for counseling. Well, that’s all I need right now, Michelle thought, cynically. This client was one of the more fucked up she had to deal with. The client, a woman, had more problems than the average nutcase she’d see. It was a local newswoman for KQEZ, Amanda Gail.

 

 

3

Brett had a dream in which he was at work. He had come in, sat at his desk, then was called to the morgue. Puzzled, Brett went over. He met his partner, Rob Zakowski, & his lieutenant, Nancy Sullivan, at the door. They were treating him like he had just suffered a major loss, offering assistance & so forth. Brett goes into the viewing area to identify a body. Brett, worried now, looked as they removed the sheet from the body. Looked, as Leelee lay as cold as most corpses do. He was there to identify his daughter’s body.

Brett woke up in shock. The radio kicked on, blaring Metallica (the good years) & he was back in reality. Sweating, he took his shower & dressed. He went to the kitchen, only to see Leelee looking half dead sitting at the table.

“Morning,” Brett said, mock cheerfully.

“I won’t answer,” Leelee said. “until you quit yelling.”

“Good enough. I’m going to work, don’t puke anywhere.”

“Your concern for my well-being is greatly appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” Brett said, & kissed her on the forehead. “you should probably call your mom…& maybe that dickhead she’s with.” He smiled at her. Leelee groaned, in both disgust & acknowledgement. She hated Grant Hicks like most people hate Yanni. In fact, she wrote of him in her diary as “Stepdaddy Dickless”, which was the opinion of both her & Brett. Leelee hoped someday Brett would beat the fuck out of him. As Brett walked out the door, Leelee turned on the kitchen TV. Nothing cured a hangover, Brett had told her, better than the Smurfs.

 

“Ah, McCabe,” Lieutenant Nancy Sullivan said almost sarcastically as Bret walked into her office. Her long brown hair flowed over her shoulder; she didn’t look like the forty-five she was. “Good to see you back. Hope you didn’t kill the doorman or anything.”

“That’s funny, Nancy,” Brett retorted. “Hilarious. Mind if I ask the reason for the good humor? A riot down main street perhaps? Maybe your husband paid two months worth of alimony? Don’t know why he’d leave a nice five-dollar piece of ass like you, Nance. What with you being a cold-hearted bitch & all.”

“If I hadn’t known you for the past five years,” Sullivan said sternly. “I would have fired your ass months ago. So shut the fuck up. We have a case for you.”

“Already?” Brett was dumbfounded. He’d been on a suspension, had back paperwork, & here was his old academy mate Nancy “Keep It Greasy So It Goes Down Easy” Sullivan with a case already. About this time, Brett decided God, Allah, or whatever divine force existed was out to get him.

“You watch KQEZ? That local affiliate?”

Brett didn’t especially care for the network, outside of the old “MASH” reruns shown daily. “But of course. Who am I to turn down McLean Stevenson & Larry Linville shenanigans?”

“Fucking loser,” Sullivan said under her breath. She never liked Brett, & vice versa. She only got the promotion to lieutenant because with Brett’s “past”, he hadn’t seen a promotion in a long time. “Well, the lead anchorwoman for the news show is gone. Amanda Gail.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean, “GONE”. Her boyfriend reported it just today that he hadn’t seen her in a week or so, went to her place & it was empty.”

“Wait a second,” Brett considered something for a half second. “The guy waited a week to report her missing?”

“Glad to see you’re paying attention, McCabe,” Sullivan responded coldly. “Her address is in the file on your desk. Zakowski checked it over, but I told him not to do anything till you got here.”

“You’re all heart, acid queen.”

“Get the fuck out of my office. I got a job to do.”

“Oh. Do I know him?”

 

They arrived at 345 Ellis Street roughly an hour later; Brett had paperwork to get squared away. His partner, Rob Zakowski, was a wiry little man. Zakowski was about five years older than Brett, but acted like he was a frat boy. Brett witnessed him down a crate of King Cobra over the course of a weekend. Brett still hadn’t gotten the vomit out of the carpet yet.

The apartment was unsurprising in it’s state. Brett looked everywhere, hoping for any trace of a lead. This was the only aspect of his job he liked: investigating. The hunt for the unobvious. But it was usually easier than this. On the fridge was a grocery list. Brett didn’t get why any self-respecting person would knowingly buy frozen meatloaf. But then again, he wasn’t a single girl in her twenties either. He thought about the term: girl. This Amanda Gail…she’s just a girl. Only maybe five years different than Leelee. This revelation made Brett shudder.

“Got something,” Zakowski yelled from the kitchen. Zakowski was a quiet man while sober, & Brett & he never talked much. “Part of a purse.”

“What do you mean, part of a purse? Jesus Christ,” Brett said almost to himself. A purse strap was on the windowsill. Like someone ripped off the purse itself as it hung there. Nothing was on the ground, a good five floors down. Across the street was a full dumpster, where a homeless man could visibly be seen scavenging for scraps of some kind. Brett gave Zakowski a cunning glance; one that Zakowski knew well.

“Oh no!” Zakowski protested. “I’ll do anything but that!”

 

“Find anything yet?” Brett yelled, leaning outside of the dumpster against the side of the pawnshop in the next building.

“Just rats,” Zakowski yelled back from inside the dumpster. “Part of a taco, if you want it.”

“No thanks, I just had a breakfast burrito as big as your thigh.”

“Fuck you,” Zakowski yelled feebly. Then is hand brushed up against something. Something warm. And furry.

“JESUS CHRIST!” he yelled, as he cleared the dumpster wall in an adrenaline powered leap. Brett, being a loving partner, laughed his ass off.

“It’s not funny, asshole!”

“Really? I found it fucking hilarious!” Brett laughed some more.

“Some…some thing is in there!” Zakowski pleaded. “It was furry…& warm…like a fucking big-ass rat!”

Brett ceased laughing for a moment. “Rob, you’re a cop right? What do cops carry under their shoulder? It’s a fucking gun, dickhead!” Brett roared with glee again.

Zakowski, upset, kicked the dumpster with all his might. Out jumped the alley cat, with its stringy fur flying. Zakowski yelled obscenities at the cat as it ran down the alleyway. Brett had to clutch his stomach he was laughing so hard.

“You know what? Fuck you, man!” Zakowski was really upset about all this. Brett calmed, then took a look into the dumpster. The first thing he saw was a purse, without a strap. He reached in & grabbed it.

“Hope no nasty cat lives in it.” Brett said mockingly.

“Open the fucking thing!” Zakowski said, not amused.

Inside the purse was the identification of one Amanda Gail. She was only twenty-five. Next to the wallet was an address book. Brett fingered through it as Zakowski looked through the purse more thoroughly.

Poor girl, Brett thought as he read through the book. She had so much to do. To be there for. Then he hit the day’s date, March twenty-fifth. Amanda Gail had an appointment with one Michelle Bennett. Brett could have swore he knew that name. Michelle Bennett. It was very familiar to him. The appointment was for roughly an hour ago.

 

A fucking hour, Michelle thought coldly. She could at least call & cancel.

“Fuck it,” Michelle Bennett said aloud. She needed less stress, not more. She went to her room, & stripped down to nothing. Then she lay, naked, on her pink silk sheets. After a moment of bliss, the flicked on the stereo near her bed. Ah, Bach. Nothing soothed Michelle Bennett more than laying in her most natural state, sexual or otherwise, with some classical music in the background. The silk felt so good on her naked skin; sometimes it seemed like she was put on earth just to lay there, just to be content. She smiled, a smile of contentment, a smile even, one might say, of sexual curiosity. Or just pure horniness. So, as she was ready to relive a bit of her tension, there came a knock on the door.

“Fucking Christ!” Michelle said out of frustration. She just put on her robe, & went to the door. Two men were there. One was a tall, dark haired man in John Lennon sunglasses, with a noticeably absurd goatee, & the other a bizarre wiry man with a face like slate.

“Good afternoon,” Brett said, in full cop mode. Then he saw Michelle, in robe, her blonde hair flowing majestically over her shoulder. He then quickly said, “I’m inspector McCabe, this is Inspector Zakowski. We’re looking into the disappearance of Amanda Gail. Have you seen her?”

 

In a matter of seconds, Michelle Bennett & Brett McCabe had looked each other over sufficiently. To Brett, Michelle was an obvious beauty; her face projected an image of artistic brilliance, with a large dark, crazed quality that was strangely drawing. Then, being a leg man, he noticed her exquisite legs; she had to be a runner, or a dancer, or both, he thought. The firmness, & sex appeal of her legs was evident, even to Michelle. She saw in him, more than anything else, a mental beauty. She figured Brett McCabe was a very smart man; it was an intuition. Then she noticed his dorkily handsome qualities; be it the glasses, the beard, or whatever, he expressed a quality that expressed vulnerability as well as a roughness. It was obvious to Michelle, that there was much more to Brett than met the eye. But what met the eye wasn’t too bad, either.

“Disappearance?” Michelle said, flatly & almost mockingly.

“Yes, her boyfriend reported it,” Zakowski interjected, noticing Brett being starstruck. The same thing happened when he saw Mira Sorvino in Mighty Aphrodite. “she’s been gone roughly a week.”

“Shit,” Michelle mumbled in an uncomfortable, yet almost jovial, voice. “come in. just one of those days, ha.”

One of those days. Brett thought. When you’re in his line of work, it was always one of those days.

 

 

4

 

“Fucking hell,” Gabe Morrison said under his breath. He was shopping for shoes. Mervyns had nearly everything, but nothing good for clubbing. It was time for the hunt to continue…again. Well, he rationalized, the hunt never really stopped.

It had been a few days since Amanda Gail was killed, gutted & eaten. Well, all but the head. Gabe wanted to fuck with the clergy, & couldn’t resist trading a casserole for a human head. The casserole sucked anyway. Then Gabe’s mind wandered to the night before him. What did he want tonight? A young one? An older one? A quick kill or a slow one, like Amanda Gail? He hated thinking about it; it took the fun out of it.

Gabe then mused on the brilliant way he hid the bodies. Some were under the floor, some in the walls, some even in the furniture. Gabe had a cheerleader under the neighbor’s pool. His first victim, a twelve-year-old honor student who was trick-or-treating, was in the ceiling. Candy & all. He only hid what he didn’t feel like saving, or eating. Morbid, yes, but economical. Besides, corpses & bits of corpses were fantastic insulation. Hadn’t had a bad winter in months, although it did smell a bit in summer, what with the heat.

 

The Blue Duck was a large nightclub on the slightly less kind part of town. Gabe enjoyed the place; it had a wonderful atmosphere. He looked fabulous tonight. His long brown hair was tied back, in a pony tail. The suit he wore was a dress-casual type of thing, which worked great with the club setup & his new boots. His muscular yet wiry frame worked with it too. Women loved his build, & the loved his personality more. Gabe was fully aware, of course, & used his god-given tools to get his way. He never failed.

 

As Gabe entered, he saw that evening’s choice: a tall, blonde haired goddess. She must have been sixteen or seventeen (Gabe knew that the men of the club usually were of the right age, whereas the women where usually two to three years younger than they said they were). The woman, the girl, noticed him, & danced up to him.

“Hey sexy,” Mikki Cronin purred. “wanna buy a hot piece of jailbait a drink? I won’t bite…unless you ask nicely.”

Gabe laughed an evil laugh of irony. you wanna hunt for me? Go ahead. I’ll get you first. “Hmm…five to ten in prison for a hot little piece of underage ass, or going home alone. Hmm…what’s your poison, honey?”

Mikki laughed & ordered some tequila. Gabe & her drank for hours. Well, she drank & he drank much less. Mikki giggled & flirted, as Gabe was secretly laughing his ass off. sometimes, it’s too easy. Too fucking easy!

“So tell me about yourself, cowboy,” Mikki inquired, while poking at her new glass of tequila suspiciously with a straw.

“what’s to know?” Gabe said, cockily. “I’m an artist. I find the beauty inside a person…then bring it out, as it were.”

“Cool beans,” Mikki said, still more enamored with the glass of Jose than Gabe. That would change, Gabe knew. “so you like paint & stuff?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I sculpt, sometimes I cook. I’m a jack of all trades.”

“Nice,” Mikki then slyly leaned right up to his ear, her hot breath both startled & calmed him. “wanna bring out the beauty in me?”

Gabe just smiled a big grin. “Sure baby. Let’s have an adventure.” Mikki playfully undid his pony tail, causing the shoulder length hair to fall majestically like a brown waterfall. Gabe paid the bartender, then left with the very drunk & very charmed Mikki Cronin.

 

Gabe lay in bed, naked & spent, the sweat still on his brow from an evening of sex. Mikki was in the shower, singing Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” at the top of her lungs. It had been nearly two & a half hours since they left The Blue Duck, & headed for a Howard Johnson’s a couple blocks away. Gabe was tired, but happy. He liked being happy. Life was going good for Gabriel Morrison. The contentment he felt was then cut off by the reality that he knew he’d have to kill poor Mikki. This thought nearly saddened him; sure, she was drunk, there & an easy prey, but she was also so innocent in her youth. She had what could be an amazing life ahead of her. Gabe then thought about it a little more carefully, then just decided Fuck it. The bitch dies. There, that was easy. He didn’t want to keep this one, he was sure; a kept rose tends to wilt, Gabe deduced, & he just wanted to pluck it. Mikki was a beautiful girl, he thought, & she was what, seventeen? The world won’t mind losing another youth for a greater good…or something.

Gabe slowly got up, then went to his jacket. In the pocket, he found his hunting knife. Never leave home without it, he thought, & nearly laughed. He crept closer to the bathroom door.

“Hey babe,” Gabe called romantically. “Want some company?”

There was a slight moan of pleasure from inside the bathroom. “I’d love it baby.”

Gabe did a small dance of victory, one a football player would use after scoring a touchdown. He put the knife behind his back, & entered the steam filled bathroom.

“Mmmm,” Mikki purred. “been hoping you’d decide to help me wash a few things.” Gabe just laughed, & entered the shower. Mikki’s naked form was directly in front of him.

He began to was her back slowly with a sponge, then moved to her ass. Mikki made noises of approval…then Gabe slashed the knife across her throat with his free hand. Mikki gagged as the blood, her blood, spilled in vast quantities to the floor of the tub. Gabe then stabbed her just under the ribcage. Mikki was nearing the end now, he knew. Mikki’s head rolled back, facing Gabe’s face upside down. Gabe then passionately kissed her, then thrusted the knife under her jaw, putting a violent exclamation point on the life of Mikki Cronin.

Covered with blood, & with Mikki’s lifeless body at his feet in the tub, Gabe decided to take a shower. So he stood there, bathing, as he sang “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”

 

5

 

“We last talked, probably three weeks ago,” Michelle told the policemen. “when she made the appointment. The girl’s got problems.”

“Like what kinds of problems?” Zakowski asked, writing the responses down as Brett wandered around the kitchen.

“Lets just say she hung out with a weird crowd,” Michelle gave a bizarre, knowing cackle, which made Zakowski shoot a glance to Brett. Brett shrugged, then the questioning continued.

“What crowd?”

“You name it. Sex, drugs, rock & roll-she got around for a local girl,” Brett pictured Amanda Gail talking with this strangely striking woman. Something was nagging at him. It was mostly Michelle Bennett, who he had a simultaneous attraction & loathsome feeling about. Like he felt about himself.

Brett wandered through the office area of Michelle’s two story home. Next to a diploma from a college Brett had never heard of was a framed book review from the New York Times. He quickly remembered where he’d heard the name Michelle Bennett: the writer of fucked up books Leelee usually enjoyed. Her biggest success, For The Want Of A Nail, a story about a bizarre Jew-Nazi-American love triangle during World War II. It was a comedy, no less. Brett toyed with the idea of getting something autographed for Leelee, but decided against it; he wanted to fucking leave.

Just then, Brett’s cell rang.

“Hey, Brett.” It was Scott Mendez, another cop & casual friend of Brett’s. “just got something in. They found Amanda Gail-or some of her, anyway-at the park. They said you’d know it when you got there.”

“Some of her?” Brett questioned, turning his back to Zakowski & Michelle. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hey man, I just report this shit, I don’t kill ‘em too. Grab Zakowski & check it out.”

“Fine.”

Brett hung up, then walked back into the kitchen.

“Well, someone found something.” he said to Zakowski.

“Like what?”

“ ‘Some of her’, says Mendez.”

“Nice.” Zakowski groaned.

“Wait a sec,” Michelle interjected. “you mean some fucker just chopped her up?! Oh my God!”

“Well,” Brett said, irritably. “we don’t know.”

“Well, I’m going with you.” Michelle said matter-of-factly, & got up to get dressed. Brett & Zakowski looked at each other.

“Um,” Zakowski said. “that’s not really possible. You’re not police personnel.”

“No,” Michelle said in an arguable tone. “but I was her therapist. Hell, I was her best & only friend. I think I should go.”

“You may think that,” Brett said. “but the city, they kinda don’t. so just stay put, ok?”

“Uh, no I don’t think so, sweetheart,” Michelle added extra venom to “sweetheart”. she would not be told what she could & couldn’t do when someone she cared about was involved. “I’ll call your superior, how bout that? Huh?”

“MISS Bennett,” Brett was quickly losing it. “that won’t be necessary, because it’s the law. One person can’t change the law.”

“Well, then I guess the answer is fuck you, because I’m going.”

“I’ll start the car,” Zakowski said to Brett. He didn’t want to be around when Brett got rolling.

“Look, it’s the law. You don’t like it, go fuck yourself.” Brett was quickly pissed off. Any attraction he had for Michelle had gone, & she felt the same about him.

Michelle just walked off to her bedroom to get dressed. Ten minutes later, she returned wearing a pair of jeans, black boots & a 49er jersey. She pulled out her car keys, when Brett snagged them.

“Give me those!” Michelle said in a major fit of anger.

“Look, rules are rules. Deal with it.” With that, Brett threw them into her garbage disposal. Her sink bubbled, & the sound of the grinding disposal bending & destroying her keys.

“You Motherfucking asshole!” Michelle yelled at him. “You’re so going to pay for that! that’s like destruction of property, harassment-that’s something, I know it!”

“Call us if you remember anything, Miss Bennett.” Brett said as he walked out the door.

 

Moments after the men left, the phone rang.

“What the fuck do you want?!” Michelle yelled at the person on the other end of the phone. Needless to say, she wasn’t exactly in a people mood.

“Michelle, nice to see you’re in such good spirits,” Jack Burton, Michelle’s publisher, said. Burton had known Michelle for years, & he knew that she was never what you’d call a “people person.” “hope you remember what today is.”

“Today?” Michelle had been in such a weird state, with Amanda Gail not showing up, getting murdered, Brenda taking up much of the afternoon with her surprise visit, & an asshole cop named McCabe disposing her keys, that she totally forgot that her deadline was in three days & that Burton said he’d call Saturday. “Fuck, Jack, I’m sorry.”

“I read those couple chapters you sent me on that new one,” Burton said. “& I think you can do much better. That was extremely sub par, considering your other work.”

“Look, Jack,” Michelle said exasperated. “that’s the best I can do at this mom-”

“No, it’s not, Michelle. We need something from you within the next few days if you want this novel published, & it had better be better than that stuff.”

“Is there any possible way I can get more time? Change subject or something?”

“Hmm…” Burton wasn’t much of a man in any way possible, but he knew the book world like no one Michelle had met. “non-fiction is selling better than ever. Anne Rule & Mark Fuhrman have made a lot from it the last five years.”

“You mean true-crime books?” Michelle never cared for the writing of such books; there was little story from an artist perspective, & it exploited a terrible event for the sake of sales. “I don’t know, Jack. Where the fuck would I find a-” She suddenly knew exactly where a story was, one that she had a personal knowledge of & had the most access to. “I’ll do it.”

“True crime? It’d be a big change from that avant-garde, twisted humor stuff you did with the last book, & probably darker than your darkest stuff. If you want to do it, I’ll give it to you. But can you find a case?”

“Yes. I’m actually kinda involved in one,” A little bit of a lie, Michelle thought afterwards, but this way she could get a book finished to pay her salary, as well as find out what happened to Amanda Gail. “I don’t especially wanna get into it now, but it’s a murder of a local newswoman.”

“Local woman…” Burton thought. “it’d be an interesting story, if there is a story behind it. Go for it, just send me something beginning of next month.”

“Got it,” Michelle was relieved. This would hopefully make things better for her emotionally, plus put some money in the bank.

She hung up, then called the San Paulo police. Michelle was patched through to Nancy Sullivan.

“A book, eh?” Sullivan was apprehensive. They discussed the case, then Michelle mention Brett McCabe & that whole episode. Sullivan’s eyes lit up.

“Well, Brett McCabe is heading the investigation,” Sullivan said. Michelle let out a “Jesus Christ”. “You’d have to follow him, be his shadow. He’s the man you want. You’ve got my ok to work with him, as long as you follow the conditions.”

The conditions were straightforward: don’t make the town look bad, don’t make the police look too bad, & don’t make Sullivan look bad. There were more, but just the usual red tape. Michelle then thought about the other plus of all this: to drive Inspector Brett McCabe totally fucking crazy. This brought a smile to her face.

 

---------------------------------------

 

If there's enough interest, i'll put up part 2. it's already on the other thread, so whatever. feedback is appriciated.

[Guest Memphis]

Well that was certainly interesting.

 

This got you expelled from school and society?

 

I found the actual story to be poorly written and you were trying too hard to create the desired mood and atmosphere. However, that is just my opinion.

 

M

[Guest Cancer Marney]

An opinion I share, frankly.

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

thanks. i agree with that,actually. as i said, i don't especially like it myself. my other efforts are superior, but who doesn't try to expand their horizons? thanks for the feedback though. i really do see where you're both coming from

[Ultra Violence 0]

You should sue the school

[Guest KJ Brackish]

Are you serious man? They are expressing total lack of beliefs on your thoughts. That has to be some kind of discrimination. Anyways that is only a *STORY*! They blow things out of proportion and you suffer the conciquences. I feel your pain man.

 

DFA

[Guest cobainwasmurdered]

go see a lawyer and get some free advice and take it from there, as it could actually be a vilation of your rights.

[Guest hardyz1]

All the interesting stuff happens to everyone else.

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

a lawsuit would be a waste of time for a few reasons. one, i don't have nor would get the backing finacially for an attorney. the fact that i live in a community roughly the size of Billy Barty's left nut doesn't help, because the old adage "small town=small minds" is very accurate in this instance. i've explored all the avenues & there's no real way to win, even if a jury did find for me.

 

story goes, i was good friends with this girl. we talked a lot, trusted each other, all that stuff friends do. about a year ago, she told me she had been raped by her brother's friend like a year or 2 before. it bothered me, so i wrote it down in my diary/autobiography. so as time goes on, i get to be best friends with this other girl, Brenda. she wants to see my autobiography, because she's curious. i trust her & she reads it. turns out i left in the part about my other friend getting raped, which was just a dumb fucking mistake. so a few weeks go & Brenda reads the story above. the Brenda character was just a little tribute thing, & the character of Mikki Cronin was a mixture of another 2 friends names, who liked it & thought it was funny. around this time, brenda point blankly asks the other friend about being raped. this all goes back to me, & my ex friend refuses to speak with me. it bites, but i persevere. then another month or so goes by, & my ex friend, along WITH Brenda, has taken the story to the school claiming i'm STALKING them...despite not having a car, knowlege of where they live (never been to their houses, didn't care), or knowing where they work. i go on to find out that they've told their parents, boyfriends, you name it. i show up one day & there is a fucking LYNCH MOB waiting for me. the school kicks me out, the group of former friends spreads all kinds of shit about me that people end up believing, & i'm out of the picture at public schools anywhere in the damn county.

 

there was more (death threats from Jabba The Slut, verbal altercations, etc), but thats the main point.

[Guest The Amazing Rando]

You should still sue...small minds or not.... if you take it to the state (where i'm sure there are more openminded people) you could probably win enough money to get into a private school or something...

 

The fact that they are taking a fictional story and using it against you is pretty silly. I just wrote a story for my creative writing class that had me (as the main character) killing off certain members of my class for not liking an earlier story... the people that I must went after in the story LOVED IT...and while my teacher thought it was a bit odd he liked the originality and raw brutality of it...but it's not like I got kicked out of school

[Guest El Satanico]

For something like this, you can be sure that some organization will help you get a lawyer. You just have to contact big city organizations.

 

Call Johnny Cochran

 

Call Hollywood get a movie made...these true stories that seem like movie scripts are gold to them...gold!

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

believe me, if i thought i'd get ANYTHING out of it, i'd talk to some government office or something, but the school is, i forgot to say, dirt poor. dirt poor in that they can't afford dirt. the state is ready to close them anyway, but is just really fucking slow about it. it only has 300 people in it for gods sake. also, i'll be honest, i'm not sure how much time i want to devote to making the school my bitch. but my main issue is, due to the fact these girls complained & told their folks, that they already have threatened suing ME for mental anguish & emotional disturbance or something! odds are, & according to at least one person it is, that they told the school something to the affect of "kick him out or we sue the both of you." i question that logic, since what could they sue the school for? endangering a youth or something? i know they said if i even see them in Kmart or something they can sue me for harassment. fucking small county. anyway, it has blown so far out of proportion that there's no way i can win no matter what happens. but any thoughts on cheap petty revenge are appriciated, for comedy purposes.

 

thanks for the feedback, though. i still can't believe THAT story caused so much shit. but truth is stranger than fiction

[Guest Lord of The Curry]

Why that's PREPOSTEROUS!~ FACITIOUS~! OUTRAGEOUS~! NON-COMPATABILTAGIOUS~!

 

Seriously, go see somebody because I can't see how that isn't a violation of your rights......

[Guest MarvinisaLunatic]

You know, this gave me an idea for a movie..a sort of ripoff of the Ring, but in this version people don't die, they just get really bad luck from reading this story that someone wrote.

 

I don't know all the details, but it would be cool.

[Guest Lil Naitch]

Funny thing is.. if the parents sue you, any reasonable judge and jury would laugh them out of court... and if you get worried, just get a change of venue. And I still likethe story. Needs polishing, but it's still a fun read.

[Guest Lil Naitch]

Double post

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Well, I don't really follow. I checked out the thread in LSD and this all seems very strange to me.

 

I don't really think all this was worth this story, because it's poorly written, reliant on pop culture and pulp, and, uh, just really sloppy and haphazard altogether. Good luck figuring something out, though. You should, however, drop your idea of trying to get this published for revenge, because you'll never get this published unless you take it to a vanity press.

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

^^^Eh, goals change. I agree, it's not the best. but whatever, if people like it, fine. if they don't fine. that's why i posted it: just for constructive criticism. any ideas for improvement are appriciated. but my main objective along with the feedback quotient is to show that no matter how dumb but harmless something is, people tend to get up in fucking arms. this whole thing is the very definition of bullshit, & i just needed to get it out. forums are good for that, so i'm told.

 

again, i know it's nowhere near as good as i'm backhandedly getting credit for, but what the hell? if people believe everything anyone says they end up bitter & fucked up. besides, the fact one person liked it is better than nothing. my other work is better, this is just trying to branch out. that branch might just get pruned though. thanks for the feedbakc though

[Guest Cancer Marney]

I just have to say that I've never seen anyone take unconstructive criticism as well as you. Most people who write trash get hysterical in its defense or simply dismiss the attacks. I'm surprised and pleased to see you actually acknowledge your limitations, and I think that speaks volumes for your mental state. Frankly, I would've tended to agree with the admins (although even when I thought you were a little nuts I thought they'd overreacted), but now I think you just made one silly, tasteless, but ultimately harmless mistake. If you have this same honest, easygoing, and tolerant attitude offline, people who know you should know better than to believe you're some kind of crazed serial killer. You have my sympathies for all the bullshit you're going through.

[Guest The Decadent Slacker]

Eh, people can think what they want. The fact is, as it pretains to the story, it's just a damn story, definitely the weakest one i've ever written. so if people don't like it, thats ok. & Marney, i know i'm not sane, but i also know i'm not fucking crazy. i'm just uni-polar

 

& i would appriciate some constructive criticism. if it sucks, i'd prefer it sucked for the right reasons as opposed to just sucking. the fact someone actually liked is awesome, but i know i can do better. i just need a push in the right direction