One More (eBook)

CHAPTER 2

“Right or wrong, it’s very pleasant to break something from time to time.”

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

We left Frenchy’s separately. “Hope you don’t mind, but I know a couple of people here who might recognize me, and I wouldn’t want them to say anything to my parents,” I lied. She seemed okay with that. Yep. She was as dumb as I had imagined.

“That’s fine with me. I don’t know anybody anywhere,” she stupidly volunteered. “So, I really don’t get it, your parents finding out things, but if that’s what you want, I’m cool.”

I strolled to the door, and without a backward glance, left the bar. I hung around the parking lot for a few seconds before she emerged. “Car’s this way,” I said, glancing hurriedly in all directions. Not a soul in sight. So far, so good.

I quickly settled her into my car, ducked behind the wheel, and in no time, we were crossing eastward over Clearwater’s Memorial Causeway Bridge. We were cruising north on Fort Harrison not long afterwards, and soon it became Edgewater Drive. We were in Dunedin. I took a rambling route to the complex, avoiding major intersections where we might be observed by any passersby. Eventually our rambles brought us onto Bayshore Boulevard, and in less than a mile we had reached the complex.

It was dark and deserted, as it should be. I owned the entire complex of what once had been shops, a restaurant, and various other small businesses. They’d all received notices in the past year that their rental contracts would not be renewed. I was undertaking a major renovation of the property and would be going from one storefront to the next executing an extreme makeover, I explained. Yes, yes, I would let them know if I wanted their businesses to return once the project had been completed. Don’t hold your breath, I thought with an inward smirk.

Almost everyone in downtown Dunedin was aware of my plans for the complex. I’d made certain of that. I’d procured all the necessary permits, and duly posted them outside, so that city officials and the police could clearly see them. I’d let it be known that I intended to divide one store into several different businesses under one roof. Because of this, I would want to have it soundproofed. I would be doing some of the work myself, and, due to my daily concerns, much of that work would be done in the evening, and I’d probably work late. As there were no residences nearby, machinery noises should not pose a problem for anyone. I’d made a special point of letting the police know the make and model of my car, so that if they saw it there at unusual hours, they’d know that it was only me, hard at work on the building’s renovation.

While it had all been extremely tedious, it had also been completely necessary. The last thing I wanted was some nosy parker police officer poking about, attempting a good deed by squelching a suspected break-in.

“We’re here,” I said to the girl, as I came to a stop, slipped out of the driver’s seat, and started toward the rear of the building. She hopped out, and quickly followed me, the slap, slap of her Flip Flops sounding annoyingly on the uneven pavement.

“Where are we?” she asked, readjusting the purse strap on her shoulder.

“It’s just a place I… my family owns. We’re having it renovated. Can’t really take you home, but nobody will bother us here.”

“You got anything to drink inside?” she asked as I unlocked the door.

“Sure do. Just about anything you want.”

“Good. I think I’d like something stronger than beer. Got any Kentucky Gentleman?”

The door was unlocked now, and I swiftly nudged her inside. One more furtive glance around—the coast was clear. I closed the door—what a wonderfully final ‘clank’—and relocked it from the inside, using my key.

“Probably not, but I’m sure I have something kinda like it,” I replied. What the hell was like Kentucky Gentleman, which was without question, the absolute worst whiskey ever produced in Bardstown? Not that it mattered, she wasn’t going to be drinking anything anyway.

I flicked on the light switch and a weak glow brightened the room just slightly. There were no windows, and only one other door broke the otherwise solid walls. Standing in the middle of the room, the girl turned in a slow circle as she took it all in. “Nice,” she said, a sarcastic edge to her tone. “Maybe we shoulda stayed at Frenchy’s.”

“Why? We couldn’t be alone at Frenchy’s. Here we can be.” I approached her and forced myself to touch her. With my hands resting gently on her moist, dirty shoulders, I said as reassuringly as I could manage: “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you that drink.”

She sauntered lazily, her face pouting, toward a chair nestled in one corner. She didn’t make it that far. When the Stun Gun made contact with her bare flesh, she jerked once, and her body twisted slowly toward the floor, then landed there, one arm above her head, the other straight out from her body.

Ah. That’s better. I scooped her up and quickly took her through the door to the ‘operating room,’ as I called it, and laid her on the gurney in the center of the room, beneath the bright overhead lights. She was moaning and starting to squirm, albeit still disoriented, but I needed time to strip her and tie her down without too much of a struggle. Another quick zap with the Stun Gun gave me the time I needed to properly sedate her. I watched as the propofol filled the syringe, then finding an eager vein, administered the drug directly into her bloodstream. She was quiet now, and would be for as long as I needed to complete the first part of my work. I removed her clothing and secured her hands and feet with the restraints.

Next I stripped myself completely. I would perform the operation sans apparel. No clothes, no blood-spattered clothing, no forensic evidence. I took my clothing and laid it neatly on the chair in the antechamber, then returned to her.

“Welcome to God Cinema Presents,” I announced with a slight bow. “Your role in tonight’s performance is extremely important,” I continued with a nod to the table and the girl lying unconscious atop it. “Without you, there would be no performance. Shall we begin?” I approached the gurney.

“Did you know that in ancient Greek theater, the actors wore masks to portray their characters?” I continued conversationally. I gave her a long, searching look, then shook my head. “No, of course you didn’t. No matter. Happily, we are not in a vast amphitheater where the nuances of our performance might be otherwise lost to the audience. But, as there is no audience, apart from ourselves, we don’t need to bother with masks. I wear one every day, though. In fact, I was wearing one earlier tonight when we met at Frenchy’s. If I hadn’t been, I doubt that you’d be here with me now,” I said as an aside.

“I’m glad you’re getting a little nap in. You’ll want to be rested for what’s to come. So while you sleep allow me to fill you in on some of the finer points of our little drama.”

I was enjoying myself now. Fully in my character as god. “You are a pathetic excuse for humankind, but do not fear, I will soon alleviate your worldly suffering, just as that other, pretend god, the one that so many of the faithful, ignorant people of the world pray to, might take pity on a devotee,” I told her. “There is but one god, my dear, and I am he. I alone hold the power of life or death over you, pitiful, hapless creature that you are. I can show mercy and dispatch you quickly to the reward you no doubt believe exists in some other realm, or I can prolong it, and gain more personal satisfaction.”

But timing was everything. It was not a difficult decision. I would continue talking to her, expanding on my plans for her, and extend her life for as long as possible for my own enjoyment. I stepped into the antechamber and checked my wristwatch. I had plenty of time, two or three hours, maybe more, until I absolutely had to get her in the ground. I returned to the operating room to begin the ‘surgery.’

As I entered, I regarded her, almost ruefully, for a few moments, and for one tiny instant, I thought: I cannot do this only once. I must have this experience again and again! It’s too sweet, too perfect, the embodiment of my own perfection. But then, my rational side stepped in, and reminded me that the one-time rule was part of the plan. A perfect thing cannot be repeated. As Heraclitus said: [You could] “not step twice into the same river.”

Reminding myself yet again that I was on a schedule, but that I didn’t need to rush unnecessarily, I began. Slowly. Very slowly. Bones first. Dislocations were all important if she was to be pliable. I recalled how Cook would butterfly entire chickens. They started out all whole and firm, but with just the right crack here, the right slice there, within a short time they were all limp, and, well, pliable.

The arms were easy. I removed one at a time from beneath the strap that held her bound to the table, and with a quick, powerful backward twist—-I was happy for my time spent in in the university gym; my arms were thickly muscled and more than equal to the task at hand—the shoulders were instantly and completely dislocated. The lower arms followed suit within minutes. The legs posed more of a challenge. Complete dislocation of the joint between the tibia and the femur required greater strength. I slipped her body down so that her legs were extended off the table, rolled over...