***WARNING: CONTAINS PROFANITY, VIOLENCE, AND DISTURBING THEMES***
” P R E T T Y B A G S O F M E A T “
A Zany Quintana Psycho-Killer Thriller
Several hundred miles away, on a lonely stretch of north Texas highway surrounded by scrub and the huge, spinning blades of a wind farm, another killer ends a call on a disposable phone, then takes a hammer to it, feeling quite self-actualized as the pieces are gathered into a plastic bag and stuffed into a gym bag in the trunk of the killer’s car.
The killer hates the windmills. Especially at night. Somewhere, the killer read an article claiming that a high-pitched sound the blades make when they are spinning causes anxiety and fear in people who live within close proximity to a wind farm. Or maybe they’re just big and spooky and weird. Facing an eight-hour drive back to San Antonio, the killer is edgy to get home, to the killer’s couch, the killer’s bourbon, and the killer’s recently-purchased high-definition, widescreen TV. And the memory of the delicious screams of that whore begging for her life. Fuck these scary, creepy-ass windmills. I need a buzz and a bath and a good, long sleep.
The killer drapes a canvas tarp over the bag, locks the trunk, lights a fresh cigar, and points the hood south on US-87 towards Amarillo.
Driving along at an easy pace, the killer searches the dial for a classical station, which can be hard to find with all the redneck crap on every signal between Dahlart and Sweetwater. Ah. Mozart. Requiem in D minor. The Sequentia.
Day of wrath, that day will dissolve the earth in ashes, as David and the Sibyl bear witness…
It’s been a long, strange week. A few loose ends to deal with, but nothing impossible. The killer will stress for a few days, and maybe for a few years after that, but it’s all good. That’s where the bourbon comes in. And the TV.
Still, it was fun cutting her up, especially the confused look in her eyes, as she pleaded, over and over again, “Why are you doing this to me? Oh, God, why!” Then, of course, the almost spiritual satisfaction as the killer calmly explained why, and fired up the drill. The look on that bitch’s face, drained of blood, white as a bible, the full comprehension of it sinking into her mind, followed by animal fear as the killer moved towards her. Perfection! Then came the wailing. Pathetic and shrill. Freaking priceless. It’s odd the sound a drill bit makes as it spins into human flesh. It’s like a garbage disposal, cutting up hunks of cheese.
What dread there will be when the Judge shall come to judge all things strictly…
Meddling slut. I’ll sip your suffering like fresh coffee every morning for the rest of my life. You deserved it. You brought this on yourself. You’re the killer, not me. You killed the world, and now it’s my turn. I am justice. I am karmic reaction. And I feel great! At long last, life is cake and I am happy in my heart. Ugh. I just can’t keep a classical station tuned in. The signal breaks up and Mozart is lost.
The killer hits Seek again, and the car radio filters through a dozen sad Country songs, mixed with bursts of Tejano.
Another push of a button, as the haunting reflections of the huge blades of the windmills slide across the glass of the killer’s windshield. An AM station, crackling with the angry ramblings of a talk show host.
“–Obama and his liberal puke friends are flushing this country down the toilet with their socialist agenda, and someone needs to take a stand! Where’s the accountability? Where’s that scrap of paper we used to call the Constitution? America is pissed-off, Mr. President, and come November, you and the rest of the crooks on Capitol Hill are gonna suffer a reckoning for your sins against liberty!”
The killer sighs, and is about to change the station when a news sounder interrupts the broadcast.
“A break in the Preacher case! I’m Liz Ruiz for Newstalk Five-Fifty, KTSA, with new information regarding the disappearance of over two-dozen young women from the northwest side of San Antonio. A statement from SAPD is now confirming a suspect has been apprehended in a case which has confounded investigators and terrorized a city for almost two years. Sources say the individual is a white male in his sixties, and, shockingly, was taken into custody not by a member of the Homicide Unit, but rather by an off-duty traffic cop working the case on her own time. With few details being released at this late hour, city officials are scheduling a press conference–”
A flaky, red ember from the cigar falls to the killer’s knuckle, burning the skin. Without flinching, the killer’s grip tightens on the steering wheel.
“You have got to be shitting me…”
Not surprisingly, the cell phone resting in the passenger seat begins to vibrate.
The killer shoves a boot deep into the accelerator. The tires squeal as the vehicle shoots down the black ribbon of the interstate, and disappears into the gloom.
Like the arms of giant sentinels, the massive, churning blades of the white windmills reach down to catch the fleeing car, but the killer slips through their fingers, speeding frantically towards a bloody destiny with a traffic cop, feeling quite perturbed, and yet suddenly unafraid of wind farms.
Copyright 2016 by Sean (Shawn) Rima. Published by Lulu Press.
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