April 4, 2017, Midday
Ratchet City Jail
Sitting on the small metal toilet in the corner of the room, I remembered the first time I felt like this about a man. He was my first grown-up romance. His name was Carl. He was 40 and I was 29. He had no children and a stable, decent paying job. He was fun, more fun than any man I’d dated in Ratchet City. Shooting pool was his favorite past-time, so we patronized a local pool hall every Monday night.
He taught me all the tricks.
We would hustle men (I would) for date money by pretending I needed a lesson, then betting five or ten bucks that I could clear the table before he made his first shot while Carl drank at the bar. It was such a rush.
Our little game wasn’t just for thrills. Not on Carl’s behave. He had a girlfriend, the live-in kind. Any real money that he spent on me, she would notice eventually.
I felt so stupid when I found out.
I didn’t even bother to tell him that I knew.
On FB, I created a pseudo-profile and friended her. I searched public records, social media and subscription databases to get all the information I needed: phone numbers, email addresses, driver’s license numbers, mailing address, etc. Oddly, in six months of dating, it never occurred to me that I didn’t know where he lived.
I was so naïve.
Through the U.S. Census records, I learned her likes and dislikes, who her real friends were and where they lived, where she worked, her schedule, her favorite color, food, movie. I learned as much as I could about her.
With that information, I was able to spook her. Instant messages, emails, random messages taped to their front door and left on her desk at work.
One cold, stormy night in May, I poured anti-freeze into her gas tank. When we spoke the next day, he complained about having engine trouble with his second car.
Now, I knew that her car was in his name, or at the very least, he was taking responsibility for it.
That’s what a therapist told me. When a man loves a woman, he makes an investment in her.
I was devastated.
He told me that he was ready to settle down, get married and have children.
He was a liar.
He didn’t love me. He was just using me for sport.
All those things I did to her, he pretended were happening to his dear, longsuffering sister. He said, “Once I find out who’s behind this, there will be harassment charges filed.”
Fine by me.
To that effect, I went to her favorite watering hole. On the nights that he would meet his bowling league, she and her friends would meet at Stark’s. They would eat appetizers and drink two-for-one margaritas until they were drunk.
The owner was a close friend. He let me serve my sausage that night. I served her; Sheena was her name, and her friends, personally. I brought their appetizers, including the sausage and their drinks.
“A little lagniappe for you ladies,” I said. They thanked me profusely.
I took great pangs to provide them with personal service all night. (This, of course, was a way of keeping my eye on her and learning about her and her relationship with Carl.)
She and her friends drank and drank and drank and drank and on and on until they were all shit-faced. At the end of the night, she drove home cautiously, if I had to guess, about five miles below the speed limit. I observed her leaving the bar and grill from my car, but I did not follow her. I didn’t have to. I already knew where she lived.
It would take her ten, maybe, fifteen minutes to get home in Thursday night traffic in Ratchet City driving at her pace. I left shortly after she did. I was sober so it took me less than five minutes to get to her house because I was driving the speed limit.
I waited in her driveway in front of the car that I ruined. She walked up, teetering on her platform heels while texting. She never saw me coming. I slapped her in the face hard with a twenty-four inch two by four. She fell back straight away, her head smacking the pavement. I could hear the crack of her skull as she went down.
Blood was oozing from her nose.
If she wasn’t dead, she was definitely severely brain damaged.
I had to get rid of her.
I took her body to the pig farm where many of us purchased pigs for slaughter and processing. The little porkers did the work for me. All I had to do was remove her clothes, her shoes and her jewelry. The pigs disposed of her, all of her, in less than ten minutes.
Now, I’m wondering if they know about her or any of the others. Is that why my bail still hasn’t been set? They’re looking for more incidences, I bet. More evidence.
Fine by me.