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His routine was always the same. He met his client in the bar, went to the room, had paid sex with her, kissed her goodbye, then, exhausted, he took a rest. Later, he would bathe, shower, and sanitize, removing all traces of her sediment from his body, dress in fresh clothes, take the early evening train to London.

Angie, still red-faced, feeling ashamed of herself, was in a hurry to leave. Unaware of the threat posed by the crippled woman, she passed Slick in the lift lobby. Slick followed her to the dingy, oily, smelly, underground garage where she attacked her from behind. She strangled her victim gracefully, silently, drawing the garotte tightly round her neck. The woman thrashed her head from side to side. Her brittle nails tore out her assailant’s hair. Her elbows pummelled her ribs. The victim strained and stretched, kicked, and bit. But Slick clung on. Until her death. Calmed, the woman relaxed onto Amber’s flat chest. Angie fell asleep one last time dreaming of the time when a gigolo made love to her, pretending to be her dead husband. Her neck still in twine, her sad head flopped forward, her dead eyes rolled, staring into empty garage space - and she died.

Amber carefully unwound the sacrificial wire, with its carved acorn handles, from the corpse’s neck, as if she were peeling nylon sea fishing line off a reel-spool, stowing it in her bucket bag. She locked Angie’s corpse into its new 4x4 jeep casually dropping the keys down a storm drain, left the garage, and took the staff lift to the first floor.

He stirred from his slumber, thinking of her, playing out her fantasy. How she’d left him asleep, left his fee on the bed, then bolted like a frightened deer. He wasn’t surprised. No matter how promising their intentions, clients never stayed long once their sex was over. And yet, she found a kind of love with him. He felt sorry for her, more than sorrow he felt he loved her. He reflected forlornly on their brief encounter,

At least, I made her happy.

He heard a gentle knocking on the door, the charming, feminine, squeaking of a stalking bird,

‘Room Service.’

He stared at the bottle of champagne lying unopened in the wine cooler. Her empty glass, the crimson stain on the carpet. He didn’t recall ordering food. He eyed the door, recalling the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob outside.

‘Room Service,’ the high-pitched voice repeated, ‘Fresh supply, coffee, tea, milk, biscuits for your bedroom.’

He checked the beverage tray on the sideboard. It hadn’t been touched. Shrugged his shoulders,

‘Just a minute.’

He went to the wardrobe, took out his fluffy white gown, put it on, tied the cord at his waist … opened the door,

‘No! Please! No!’

He puts up his fists, boxer-style, in a vain bid to defend himself.

Slick was insane. Slick went berserk. Slick swung the meat cleaver at him with all her might, slicing a deep red gash in the man’s forearm. Horrified by the sight his blood, soaking the white gown red, he recoiled, collapsing, falling to his knees, as if in prayer, praying for his life. Slick swung the cleaver, slicing into his neck, again, and again, and again. He keeled over, toppling forward.

His final act was to kiss a cripple’s feet.


Martin - with a Client:

Submitted: September 10, 2021

© Copyright 2021 hjfurl. All rights reserved.


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I have taken a conducted tour through a slaughterhouse.
Slicks victims met the same fate.
Slick is now a victim of herself.
In the end we are all victims of a cruel world.

Fri, September 17th, 2021 1:11am


WOW! We are indeed! Thank you Vanilla! HJX

Fri, September 17th, 2021 4:37am

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