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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: Just west of the Cascade Mountains....couple miles from the pacific ocean puget sound
Gender: Male
Posts: 283
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From the beginning #2 (untitled) new post following clarification
Zac saw her immediately. Her seductive walk branded in his psyche. He knew her gait like he knew his own
bloodlust, intimately. Zac had no desire to bed Lil P. The thought was repulsive to him. In fact, Zac had never even
heard her voice. Always with eyes open and an ear to the ground, he knew things…somehow. He knew that every
other Tuesday night between eleven and twelve-thirty , Lil P would meet an eighteen wheeler at the Circle T Truck
Park The truck stop was enormous. Four restaurants, showers, high speed DSL hook ups, the works. Everything an
owner or driver would need. Each time the maroon Volvo Tractor displaying Davis Connelly Transport, Daphne,
Alabama, came into Circle T so did Lil P.
Everything Zac saw went into his memory. He was brilliant, a savant and completely insane.
The Circle T was not a place you would ever find Lil P. She wasn’t a “lot lizard”, a term coined by truckers to
describe the prostitutes that frequented the truck stops. For the most part, these whores were burnouts, walking the
track was no longer viable. They were threadbare and lazy. Lil P felt herself above that. She was not a prostitute in
her mind. No, she was a binge addict with a sex drive born from her time spent in child pornography. She came from
a wealthy family whose money was only rivaled by their perversity. Make no mistake, Gina was somebody’s
daughter, somebody’s friend, somebody’s somebody. She would get her fill and vanish for eight or nine days. She
would show up as mysteriously as she had left. This had become part of her allure, her legend. Another part of her
mystery was her age. When she first hit the track, she looked all of fourteen and after four of five days without sleep
she would age to a lovely eighteen to twenty year old.
None of Lil P’s street creed or legend meant shit to Zac. He was a machine. Always out for himself. What
mattered to Zac was Lil P’s movements. When she left Davis, usually in the late wee hours, she would invariably go to
the track. She would stop at a first floor room at the corner of Dickerson and Pike, the Metro Hotel. She would cop a
half ounce of hard (crack cocaine), then indulge in her other pastime. She would pickup/seduce two to three of the
younger new girls working the track.
The pimps knew, finally, after a few of these special vacations had cut a nights income. They were understandably
angry. The pimps were still clueless as to where the girls went, but they knew Lil P was behind it. The most important
thing to these men, like all business men, was the paper, the cheddar, the cheese, the fucking money! A fresh new face
could command four hundred to six hundred on a week night, eight hundred to a thousand on a warm weekend night.
No one knew where or what went on. Zac knew. He knew things….somehow.
Zac knew the power of information. Zac was a machine, an automation. He did what was practical to further his
plans. He wasted nothing. He bathed when his odor might hinder him. He ate when the mirror revealed his
malnourishment. Most importantly, before all other considerations, he was a killing machine. He was as complicated
as he was lethal. He was a clockwork of wheels and cogs all working toward two interconnected objectives. Pain and
gain. His greed and sadism were matched only by a subconscious self contempt he wasn’t aware existed. To Zac, it
was the power which sustained him. A seething hatred that burned straight through him, exposing to the world around
him an evil shrouded in a pleasant handsome face. Evil disguised brilliantly in what to all outward appearances was
just another street rogue, a harmless addict. Zac was a duality, a machine and a force of nature. A true sociopath, an
antisocial black hole, from which no sympathy, no mercy, no light could ever escape.
Zac had one fear only. Always he was in fear that a day would dawn with no prey. No one to torture. He would
have to settle for less than blood. That was no option.
The name on the shiny new plaque read, Detective Major Nathaniel Richard Lay. An award of brass and wood
bestowed on men who had to touch the untouchables. An award for those unfortunate few who had the fortitude to
delve into the abyss of human malfunction. It was a hopelessly inadequate gesture, presented by bureaucrats who, if
they had a clue, would try to fire the moron responsible for the pitiful charade.
Ric Lay knew all this, but his intelligence, humility and insight were such, that he took no offense. If he could spare
others the knowledge of what existed out there… well, he would gladly feign gratitude for good intentions. Ric was a
thirty eight year, Detective Major on the Metro Nashville Police Force. He had a Masters degree in Forensic
Psychology with a minor in Law Enforcement Administration form Vanderbilt University. He was no paperback,
fictional PHD flying coast to coast solving crimes of passion. Ric was baptized in babies drowned in kitchen sinks.
His teachers had no voice, sometimes no head, always dead. Detective Major Ric Lays’ school was spent inside the
minds of living, breathing, walking demons masquerading as humans. Ric didn’t work the gang beat or the common
drive-by shootings. Ric chased monsters. He was a modern-day Van Helsink. His monsters, like those of folklore,
prowled the night leaving trails of the dead.
Detective Major Lay worked alone. He was six feet, two hundred ten pounds of hard dedicated man. Only his eyes
gave him away. His eyes proclaimed to all, he had secrets, keep your distance. He had learned to be cautious. He had
to let his mind roam with the devils. In order to profile a monster, he had to become a part of the unspeakable. He had
to let his psyche become a captive of the thing. A thing no human description could ever convey. His was a dangerous
occupation. It wasn’t the arrests, it wasn’t physical where lines are drawn and boundaries kept, it was eternal. The
danger inherent in his job was in the world of ideas and thoughts, deep inside insanities, elusive boundaries. He had
seen more than one of his contemporaries lose himself. He watched as associates lost their way. Einsteins equations
held true, nothing escapes the blackness.
Zac watched. His patience and discipline would have left a sniper commander in complete awe. He was
undetectable. He watched the truck from two hundred yards away. Lil P had been in there over four hours. His heart
rate was fifty three beats per minute. His respiration was slow, deliberate. In four hours his only movement had been
his eyes scanning. He had blinked three times.
The two inside the big Volvo sleeper/living compartment were oblivious to the intense surveillance. Davis was spent. Again, Precious had let him indulge all of his fetishes. She enjoyed it. Lil P had her tiny handbag with her. As always it contained only three items. Feminine fresh wipes, condoms and a cell phone. She was wiping herself down. She hadn’t been high in over an hour.
Lil P liked Davis. He was her only regular. He was a freak, but that she could handle. She would leave five
hundred dollars richer. She had wiped down her arms and neck. Now she took a fresh wipe to her right foot and after
cleaning her toes and soles, she grabbed her left ankle with both hands and brought her foot to her face. She whistled
at Davis who was blissfully smoking a Newport with his eyes closed. When he looked her way, she playfully licked
her big toe then sucked the pinky toe into her mouth and winked at him. Davis almost dropped his cigarette. She
giggled at him and continued to bathe with the perfumed wipes. Most “tricks” never got this kind of personal
attention, but he let her take control. She liked the way he worshiped her whole body. He wasn’t a psycho like most
of the animals out there. Plus like always she had told him an epic story of a friend who was in a bad way. Suffice it
to say, she easily got him to cough up another seventy five. Now she had more than enough to fulfill her desires. Gina
had sought out just one girl earlier. A real beauty. She began to feel moist heat between her legs, just thinking of her.
She couldn’t wait to hook up.
About a quarter of a mile south of Trinity Lane on Dickerson, Kera Kelley was walking across the lot of the defunct
and dark Noble Car Wash. Kera had made sure Binky, her pimp, had seen her crossing the chained-in lot. The city
had set steel poles in the asphalt about waist-high and strung heavy gauge chain through eye bolts atop the poles. For
awhile, police cruisers would se on the lot, but that became too costly with man hours and windshields. The chains
were little less than a nuisance to the flesh and drug trade on the corner. Lucy Avenue ran down the side of the
carwash and two doors down Lucy, it was business as usual in the alley. Beginning around two p.m. till two a.m. the
mouth of the alley did a brisk trade.
It was three fifteen a.m. Wednesday, Kera Rene Kelley was just arriving at the alley. She glanced back to see if
Binky was following her in his ninety four Coupe De Ville. She snapped her head back and to the left, her ponytail
swishing in the air. Her eyes searched the alley. She began walking, she was to meet Lil P in the alley way around
three thirty. She knew from the other girls, that if you disappeared with Lil P , the consequences could be harsh. She
had talked the hot, young red head into meeting now instead of Wednesday afternoon. This way she shouldn’t bring
too much wrath down on her head. Most of the traffic was over for the night.
Kera was nineteen. She would be twenty in September. She had made her way to the track in mid July. Binky had
found her strung out on crystal meth, a new plague crossing the country like a wild fire in the wind. While crack
cocaine was nasty, it was a binge drug. A run on crack was short lived. When the money ran out, you were done. A
small dose of meth could keep you awake for days on end.
Binky had cleaned her up and had recognized her brand of spiritual bankruptcy almost instantly.
Kera was a product of multiple dysfunction. Polyschema pathology was the newest new age psycho-babble. She
was born one generation removed from Southern trailer trash in Glasgow, Kentucky, only fifty five miles from where
she now stood. At six, Keras’ mother found herself single, broke and trying to manage a daughter plus a healthy pain
pill habit. Hydrocodone, oxycodone….hillbilly heroin. At seven, her mothers’ boyfriend took a special interest in
Kera. He bought her silence with several effective currencies, guilt, shame, food, toys and threats. A five pronged
attack form which no seven-year-old could escape. Kera soon accepted the attention as love, the gifts as rewards.
Even her own body betrayed her. By nine, she was enamored by the sensations of climax. Her power over a grown
man made her feel a false sense of control. By eleven, her mothers next boyfriend needed no such weapons, no
orchestrations whatsoever. In no time at all, Kera seduced him. She was the real McCoy, a genuine Lolita. Kera was
an expert at coaxing a man or woman, for that matter, to climax. Her prowess came with an awful price. More men
had ejaculated in her mouth than there were days in a year. Some nights on the track, eight to ten men at an average of
twenty dollars each. Kera had no clue who she was emotionally. She was, maybe, at a twelve year old level. Her
guilt, shame and pain created her own special self contempt. Her feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness would soon
be insurmountable without divine intervention. Soon Kera would join the unfortunates who come to believe they
deserve a wretched existence. Only oceans of unconditional love can conquer that kind of spiritual deprivation.
Tonight though, she was nineteen going on twenty, self forgiveness hadn’t even crossed her mind. The same
pigheaded rebelliousness that had caused her to leave home at seventeen, was alive and well. The mysterious
invitation, an opportunity to rendezvous with Lil P was a temptation she had no power to refuse. She sauntered on up
the alley, her lithe, five foot eleven, one hundred thirty five pound, young hard body giving away her good mood with
a fresh bounce to her step.
Last edited by Gate : 03-06-2008 at 10:17 PM.
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