The Woman on the Beast Read online

  Maybe they had fried pork chops over the gas heater with their meth torches.

  Who knows?

  Maybe it was layers of congealed methamphetamine byproduct on the wall. Either way, he had bigger fish to fry. He was busy fighting back his own dry heaves now he was forced to confront his own worst nightmare - Destiny’s purse.

  Her filthy pink purse gaped open like a big vagina and poured out most of its contents onto the floor next to the smoking meth pipe, but as luck and fate would have it, not the money.

  Atticus didn’t believe in God, but he said a prayer anyway just in case.

  There wasn’t enough money in the world to stick his hand in that purse, but his inner fury had finally outweighed the risks of naked bloody needles in a hazardous haystack.

  Casting away all fear, he plunged his hand into the dark abyss.

  Worst case scenario – a bloody needle stick would infect him with Hepatitis or Aids.

  Would her vagina purse snap his hand off at the wrist like a Venus Fly Trap?

  He carefully grazed his fingers over the contents in search of a random wad of cash.

  He found it, but at the expense of slicing open his finger tips.

  It was the luckiest day of his life.

  A razor sharp blade was only for finely chopping crystals and nothing more.

  Still, cold chills ran down his spine as he sandwiched the meth blade between his teeth and positioned it carefully enough to say two words.

  With his bloody right hand he snatched up the gigantic bottle of pepper spray that had fortunately rolled out of the purse by its own free will.

  He clenched the wad of money in the clean hand, hid the bloody hand and said only two words through a clenched jaw as he opened the door to his room.

  “Money Shower!” he shouted as his clean hand tossed the green ball up into the air.

  The fight for clean air was officially over as the money ball exploded mid-air and gracefully floated down upon them like gently falling feathers.

  With teeth bared and talons out, they fell to their knees in unison and scrapped over the dollars like strippers with stretch marks.

  They were worse than rednecks at Walmart on Black Friday, and as they clawed and grabbed and hissed, Atticus pulled his bloody hand from behind his back and gave them a surprise shower.

  As the toxic mist dusted over their greedy heads like crops, the hissing sound of the spray gave them a heads up with perfect timing.

  All three faces looked up just in time to get a face full of acid rain.

  Within seconds, the struggling stripper cat fight was reduced to a pile of blind beggar bullies.

  Writhing in agony, the boys rubbed the potent irritant even harder into their painful eyes and blinded them in addition to their debilitating respiratory inflammation.

  Atticus found the bullies no longer looked threatening as they coughed, spit, gurgled, and crawled on their bellies like three blind mice.

  But you won’t be running anywhere.

  He dropped the can of poison, snatched the blade from his teeth and swiped it across three necks faster than Destiny could swipe a stolen credit card.

  Waves of orgasmic-like pleasure swept over him as bright red blood spewed from their necks like geysers and their deformed carcasses convulsed in a bloody sea of seizures. As the three volcanic necks erupted in unison the blood soaked through the dirty cash and clothed them in their own tattered garments of greed until the rising red tide disintegrated the paper thin blood money into the waves of his scarlet sea.

  You wanted a money shower? You got a bully blood bath.

  Dead silence followed the rising tide.

  Atticus basked in his glory, soaking up every precious second of his victory.

  He loved the way their eyes opened wide with a creepy blank stare as they died.

  He found it amusing the way movies portrayed death as a closed mouth and closed eyes when in reality the loss of muscle control had the complete opposite effect.

  As their mouths fell wide open with their eyes he mocked their corpses out loud. “Now who’s ready to deep throat a dick for five dollars?”

  Atticus took the cash that hadn’t yet disintegrated and crammed it in their mouths as he laughed.

  “There you go. Five dollars for a deep throat.”

  He wanted it to last forever, but as their blood painted his black floors holocaust red within’ ten seconds, he knew he’d better take out the trash – the trailer trash.

  No need to panic.

  Snitches end up in ditches in Wormwood.

  One by one he dragged his victims by the feet through the bloody river of floating used condoms coated in an oil spill of random semen.

  The tiny corpses were light as a feather in comparison to Destiny’s gigantic dumpster can that had accumulated enough trash to cover ten more bodies.

  Furthermore, no police officer on earth would dig through bloody tampons and living cum condoms just to solve a murder.

  Atticus knew he was as safe as sin on Sunday as his only real problem was picking up the gigantic black trash can.

  Like a mother lifting a car off her child, he had to tap in to superhuman abilities to raise it up high enough to pour over the bodies.

  This fuckin’ trashcan is heavier than all three bodies put together, he thought as his back cracked in seventeen different places. He grabbed the crusty old red container full of gasoline from 1987.

  Still good.

  He only needed one shot of gas.

  Nothing was more flammable than dried out bloody cotton tampons. They ignited the bodies in bursting balls of flames brighter than the Fourth of July. The smell of burning flesh was even masked by millions of smoldering latex rubbers and the kudzu jungle that coated the back yard’s chain linked fence was as impenetrable as a medieval fortress.

  It was a real Independence Day for Atticus.

  He’d created his own reality just like Ms. Mallory told him to, although maybe with a few added changes.

  As he strained his wrist to twist the rusty outdoor faucet knob and swung the green hose over his shoulder like a stiff dead snake, he couldn’t help but to be a little bummed that all the killing was over.

  The backyard blood quickly soaked down into all the piles of dog shit and disappeared like magic, but the blood flood in the crack shack was another story.

  Time to clean house.

  Thankfully, his crack house was tiny enough that any water hose on earth could have easily stretched throughout the house.

  Using his thumb to create a homemade pressure washer, he washed the bloody river of used condoms and jizz tissues straight out the back door with the rest of the trash. Rambo wouldn’t have taken a step back into that yard after he was finished with it.

  But I’m not a wussie like Rambo.

  Atticus Fletcher wasn’t scared of anything or anyone, and he would NEVER be again.

  As he strained his wrist on the rusty faucet one last time the high-pitched scraping sound signaled to the end of the best day he’d had in twelve years of life.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes when he walked back inside.

  The floors that had been black since the day he was born were now as shiny and copper-colored as a new penny.

  Well I’ll be damned …

  The twelve-year coating of black smut must have protected the floors like a plastic sofa cover at a grandma’s house. Weird. He’d always heard a house flood was a catastrophic event, but for the humble home of Destiny Gail Fletcher, it was apparently more like an exorcism.

  Those floors were brand new.

  Atticus was brand new.

  THE BUTT CHIN

  Just say it, Haiku.

  Just tell him.

  Haiku had never been good with words, especially for someone whose name meant poetry in Japanese.

  “Your parents are dead, Sam,” he finally blurted loud enough to drown out the porn playing in the background.

  Daphne winced at Haiku’s calloused deliv
ery.

  Now she wished she would have delivered the news.

  Sam stepped backwards slowly as if he wasn’t sure if an April Fool’s Day! wasn’t coming next.

  It wasn’t likely since the odd couple were complete strangers. Still, Sam held on to the possibility.

  “Are you O.K., Sam?” Daphne cut in with compassion as he robotically sat back down in his computer chair and returned his attention to the hardcore porn that continued to release pleasurable moans even after the cold and calloused news report.

  Am I having a nightmare?

  It was the weirdest day of his entire life.

  Only moments earlier he’d been merrily watching porn and giving little Sam a rub down when an unexpected knock nearly startled him out of his chair.

  He’d assumed it was the C-cup blonde from the frat party the night before, and he so wasn’t in the mood to have to explain the definition of a one-night-stand to yet another stupid sorority girl.

  How could they not get ONE-NIGHT stand? It wasn’t a NEXT-DAY stand!

  It wasn’t a two-night stand!

  It wasn’t a stand-at-the-altar stand.

  The chicks NEVER appreciated his explanation and always stormed right out the door while calling him a “little dick bastard.”

  Sam knew they were lying.

  Why the Hell would they keep coming back for more if his dick was so tiny? Liars.

  Dammit. That MUST be C-cups. My roommate wouldn’t knock. Ugh! Here we go again.

  He grabbed his lucky Uno card that he always kept on his desk in case another dumb ho needed a flash card to understand the number one.

  A picture was worth a thousand words. A picture was also worth one word – Uno – for a dumb ho, anyway. He considered it very sad that he even needed a flash card to explain the number one.

  Who the Hell can’t count to one?

  He flung open the door ready and willing to give another pre-school lesson on counting, but C-cups was nowhere to be found. Instead, a fierce-looking oriental guy stood boldly in the doorway with a shy brunette peering over his shoulder in fear.

  This is super fuckin’ weird.

  “Sorry y’all. You got the wrong room.” He tucked the Uno card into his pocket feeling as if he’d dodged a bullet – a bitchy blonde bimbo bullet. Little did Sam know, he was about to get the biggest bullet of his life.

  “We’re here to talk to Sam Brunson. Do you know him?”

  Haiku took charge as usual.

  “That’s me. Can I help you? I don’t want to buy any Girl Scout cookies unless you’ve got the peppermint ones covered in chocolate.”

  “We’re from Sterling Heights. We just came to see if someone had told you about your parents.”

  Sam’s bushy blonde eyebrows furrowed to form a clear signal that no one had told him anything.

  “My parents? Are they O.K.?”

  Sam didn’t think about his parents too often. He’d just always assumed they were O.K., and they’d live forever like him.

  That’s when the Oriental guy blurted, “Your parents are dead, Sam!”

  The brunette stepped in and starting saying all sorts of things, but her words ran together like gibberish as Sam’s brain froze up like a computer.

  If it was the most fucked up April Fool’s Day joke on earth then he needed to get back to his porn. If it was true, he had absolutely no idea how to process that news and decided to pretend like he didn’t hear it at all.

  He slumped back down into his chair in denial and cranked up the porn.

  He needed porn more than ever now.

  Daphne cringed as the overly pleasurable moaning finally climaxed from his laptop. She’d never felt so awkward.

  Sam was terrified at the notion that they could possibly be telling the truth, especially since an April Fool’s Day joke didn’t make sense in July.

  Daphne was thinking Haiku really needed to improve upon his communication skills.

  Haiku didn’t see the need for communication skills as he was an excellent mind reader and Sam’s brain was no Rubix cube.

  Sam was clearly a big fat sheltered baby. His Daddy had probably paid his teachers to pass him because he couldn’t remember the alphabet. Having a flash card with the letter one on it only confirmed Haiku’s suspicions that Sam was a simpleton.

  Now he was reverting to his comfort zone, porn, and sucking on his tittie of addiction for dear life.

  He didn’t need Daphne’s pity, and he didn’t need a porn star’s titties. Sam needed Haiku to show him an example of how not to be a total pussy.

  As usual, Daphne was wrong and Haiku’s assessment was precisely on point.

  Born with silver spoons in his mouth, Samuel Brunson’s life had been the definition of sheltered. His biggest problem had been deciding which college he thought might have the largest quantity of hot chicks. He’d decided on Florida before then deciding on Italy.

  At 16, his parents presented him with a shiny black 40,000 SUV with a big red velvet bow on the hood.

  It was clear by the state of his dorm room that he’d always been attended to by a staff of able housekeepers.

  He’d never heard of bad credit. He couldn’t fathom why ANYONE wouldn’t want to pay their bills.

  Now for the first time, someone was trying to pop his rosy colored bubble of life and he had no clue how to react.

  His mom and dad couldn’t be gone. That didn’t make sense. Who would pay his bills?

  He was terrified. Part of him wanted to cry and part of him wanted to die, but a real man wouldn’t cry in front of another man.

  He didn’t know how to pay taxes. He didn’t even know where to go to pay bills. He didn’t even know how to clean his toilet.

  Now Haiku had practically knocked his nuts off with the news.

  Daphne spoke softly, attempting damage control.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sam.”

  Not listening, Sam clicked on a lesbian porn that he’d always returned to when he felt scared.

  “Sam, are you O.K.?”

  Haiku wished Daphne had a silent button he could press.

  He shot her a warning look that translated to: Clearly this poor bastard is NOT O.K., so stop asking him and shut the fuck up.

  Again, Haiku was correct. Sam was not O.K. and Daphne was making it worse by pointing it out over and over again. Sam was in denial and he finally proved it by erupting in an angry outburst. “Who the Hell are you people, anyway?”

  Haiku shot Daphne a SHUT-THE-FUCK-UP look again and stepped in to do damage control.

  “Look Sam, no one from your home town has been able to get up with you for a year now. They said your phone goes straight to voicemail and you never return emails.”

  Now a red head was pleasuring a big breasted blonde who was climaxing loudly from the laptop and practically wailing like a Banshee.

  Daphne got cold chills down her spine. Haiku understood.

  “So what? Did they pay you two to drive thirteen hours to come read me my parents’ obituaries?”

  Daphne sat stiffly on a giant basketball bean bag and let out a deep breath. Now she was glad Haiku was taking the lead.

  Haiku casually sauntered to the large looming window as if he were about to tell a joke.

  Daphne knew that was his typical mind-reading posture.

  “I don’t know you, Sam, and no one paid me, but when I heard the news around town, I thought Florida … hmm… lots of girls gone wild down there … so I offered. I really did think someone had told you the news by now, and I’d be on my way to the beach.”

  Clicking his mouse, Sam had now moved on to a skinny little guy really giving it hard to a tattooed Gothic-looking BBW.

  “Oh, Daddy! Gimme that big dick. Ummm…. Oh yeah, fuck me harder! HARDER!”

  As the kinky sexy talk mocked the silence, finally the ice broke.

  The room erupted in laughter and the lump in Sam’s throat sank back down into a comfortable spot.

  He finally rolled arou
nd in his computer chair to face the news like a man.

  “So, you say it’s been awhile. I’m assuming I missed the funeral?”

  “They died last year, Sam. I don’t think you want to have an open casket zombie funeral now.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes at Haiku’s insensitivity, but to her surprise, Sam laughed.

  “That makes sense. I studied abroad last year in Italy and I was having so much fun. It’s hard to believe a whole year went by and I didn’t notice. I feel so guilty.”

  Clearly porn helped to relieve Sam’s guilty conscious since he’d done nothing but turn up the volume since they’d arrived.

  “You want this dick, baby? You want this big dick?”

  They all laughed in unison again. Now the room was really warming up.

  A typical woman, Daphne took the opportunity to offer even more unsolicited pity.

  “It could happen to anybody, Sam. I know you had to be busy with your studies.”

  “That’s true. Any man having sex in Italian every day could easily lose track of a year.”

  Daphne could believe Sam said that with a straight face, but she nodded her head to add legitimacy to the ridiculous excuse.

  “Sounds distracting enough to me,” Haiku further confirmed.

  Sam was finally feeling brave enough to ask the pop the big question. He exhaled loudly. “So, how did they die?”

  “Your Mom died in a car accident. Then your Dad shot himself in the head. He must have really loved your Mom.”

  Haiku put his hands in the pockets of his jeans casually, as if he’d just commented on the weather.

  Daphne’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

  Sam’s eyes opened wide.

  “Dad committed suicide?”

  Haiku shrugged.

  “That’s typically what people like to call it, but I like to refer to it as taking control of your destiny. You know, really taking your own bull by the horns.”

  The preacher had always taught Sam that people who committed suicide went to Hell.

  Reading his mind, Haiku was quick with the damage control. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Sam was both a Republican and a Presbyterian.