michael christopher
01-10-2009, 11:57 PM
This work protected by copyright. Copying material
from here without my expressed written permission is against the law.
The electronic documents posted here are the intellectual property of Michael Christopher Thompson II. Copyright 2009.
The 44
The world is full of people who do what they can, but there are not enough of them to count. There have never been enough of them. There are always excuses to be made and habits to be sublimated. People often tell themselves lies and when enough people tell themselves the same lie, that lie becomes a truth. This fact has been known by people who crave power and control for centuries, and that’s why it’s become such an important Truth as some people call it, with the capital T for emphasis that THIS REALLY IS THE TRUTH. Geraldine knows about all this. She knows how people lie to themselves and each other and how the lies are pet and fed and groomed and taken care of, how they are domesticated.
The lie is the most powerful poison, she knows, because people drink of it with full awareness. Oh yes, Geraldine thinks, they pretend sometimes that they didn’t know they were lying to themselves or each other. “I just misunderstood you!” some will say, or even worse, “You misunderstand me!” This is how it always works. So Geraldine has been a liar all her life, and the most potent kind; the kind that finds no shame in her wrongdoing, the type that actually finds a sick virtue in it.
Geraldine is what most people might refer to as a “sociopath.” On the few occasions that she has thought of herself this way, she has found it amusing that others have actually come up with a label so completely logical and stupid at the same time. Sociopath. How ridiculous. What does it even mean? It’s not quite a psychopath. Psychopaths cause physical harm. A sociopath is someone who knowingly lies to everyone. But in Geraldine’s experience, over half of the people walking the face of the planet are sociopaths. And “the experts” have designated a condition for people who openly acknowledge it?
Once again, how ridiculous.
Besides, sometimes she slips over from sociopath to psychopath - who said there was a line, anyway?
Geraldine has dark brown hair - almost black, really. It hangs to her shoulders and is straight. It looks like she’s dyed it, although not very often. Her eyes are a light brown, almost hazel. She is in her late twenties, twenty-seven actually. She’s wearing a purple top and a black mini-skirt. She’s not the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’s beautiful enough to be a good sociopath, and she takes pride in this fact.
She’s staring at the bus stop from across the street right now. There’s a boy in there, waiting for a bus. He’s wearing a red baseball cap, but there is no logo or word on it whatsoever. His t-shirt is white, also plain, and he’s wearing a pair of plain white blue jeans. There’s a black hooded sweatshirt zipped half-way up his chest. He looks to be in his early twenties and his hair is sandy brown. His eyes are light blue, but not particularly striking. That is not to say that all human eyes are not simply amazing in and of themselves, it is just to say that his eyes don’t stand out any more than anyone else’s would. He’s also wearing a pair of what some might describe as “emo” glasses, with a piece of tape around them in the middle. He looks kind of cute, she thinks, but he will never be a heart throb, and especially not with this absurd glasses. Still, she homes in on him immediately.
This is the route 44 bus stop - it should be arriving here momentarily, around 4:38 is when it was scheduled to arrive actually. It’s 4:39 now. She doesn’t see it heading this way, and she wonders if it’s running late. Well, of course it’s running late, she thinks - why wonder? Inside of her head the chastising and hateful voice of her mother calls her a complete fucking idiot. She ignores it, as usual (but not as always).
Geraldine is standing on a corner - the corner of Duncan and Lyle, actually - and waiting for the orange, cautionary “DON’T WALK” signal to turn to a white, welcoming “WALK SIGNAL” - a “COME RIGHT THIS WAY” signal. The kind which lures unaware pedestrians into a street and at the same time fails to detect oncoming drunk drivers. It’s a strange thought, yes, but let’s not forget that Geraldine is a sociopath/psychopath. She’s always thinking about other people dying. Other people.
A loud piercing pitch breaks into the air quickly after the signal changes and without warning it begins to wail. This horrible noise signals deaf people to cross the street, Geraldine knows. But she’s not deaf. Not yet, anyway. She will be if the fucking thing doesn’t turn off soon.
It does as the thought ends, on cue. She crosses slowly. The crossing signal begins to flash yellow and there are cars now heading toward her. She is walking rather slowly, on purpose - in hopes of attracting the boy’s attention. It’s a good omen that the bus is late - it’s almost like the universe left this one here for her, ripe for the plucking.
There is still no bus coming. It begins to rain suddenly and she shrieks. It‘s as if God knows her intentions and has decided to soak her, because the rain starts pouring immediately as if it had been doing so all day - there is no slight drizzle to get things started. “Fuck!” she yells. The boy looks her way. The “COME HITHER” signal now screams “DON’T WALK” again. A car pulls up to her and honks. “Get out of the way!” shrieks an old man from inside, and he actually raises his fist at her.
She raises one at him in return, except hers has a standing middle finger. He returns one of his own and drives around her. She looks at him hatefully as he speeds off for a moment and almost gets hit by another car - but she manages to dodge out of the way just in time. The 99 Dodge Neon honks at her and a second middle finger is thrown out of the passenger window, which is rolled down just enough to stick a hand out. Afterward it immediately rolls back up, shielding them from the rain that she is not shielded from. She steps onto the corner of Evanston and Lyle. The boy pulls out an umbrella and opens it, and she walks toward him. “Care to share?” she asks. “Uh, sure,” he responds. he steps under the umbrella. She is not wearing a jacket.
“I’m Lillian,” Geraldine says to the boy, and she offers her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lillian,” the boy responds Cordially. “My name is Nate.” She smiles at him, and she can see she’s picked a good one. Blushes blossom on his cheeks and he turns away. “Lovely to meet you, Nate,” she says. “Where are you headed?” “I’m going downtown,” he says. “Waiting for the 44. It’s late.” “It’s usually not late,” she responds casually. “By the way, thanks for letting me share your umbrella.” He looks at her and flashes a courageous half-smile. He shows teeth - a little, anyway. “Any time,” he says happily. She grins. “I might just have to take you up on that offer again sometime, then,” she replies with a hint of eroticism in her voice, and his blushing returns at full strength immediately. He looks away again.
The 44 is coming, they see now, heading right this way. “You heading downtown too?” Nate asks her. “Yes,” she says, and thinks ‘I’m going wherever you’re going.’ They climb on the bus together, and Nate’s hand brushes hers. He imagines he feels an electric shock, and she imagines she doesn’t feel slight revulsion at his touch. She doesn’t like it when they touch her. It’s invading personal space. It makes her feel very uncomfortable. When she gets very uncomfortable, it’s not usually a good omen.
They move to the back of the bus and sit together. He looks somewhat surprised that she’s sat next to him, and she sees it flash in his eyes and regards it with a satisfaction that she can almost taste. Yes, she thinks, she’s really hooked a good one this time. But what is she going to do with him? She doesn’t know yet. She just saw the sucker as she was walking down the street, and she knew there was something in this for her. That’s how it always works. There’s always a tip-off. Usually she can tell what it is that makes her think someone will make good prey - it’s often the way they’re standing, the way they’re dressed or how aware they appear to be of their surroundings (although sometimes Geraldine has been faced with the unpleasant reminder that looks can be deceiving, as some individuals are well aware how to spot people like her). There are many tip-offs. Not with Nate,though. She doesn’t know why, but something told her that he’s going to be one of the biggest suckers of her long career in first-hand sociopathological research, and she can’t put her finger on what it is about him exactly that makes it so obvious. But it’s as obvious as darkness to a blind man. Maybe it’s the glasses?
“So what do you do?” she asks. He smiles, looking glad to be asked. “Oh, I’m an engineer,” he responds. “Really?” she says incredulously, a good tactic for feigning interest she has discovered. “What kind of an engineer?” His smile widens. “I’m a structural engineer, actually, I build bridges.” “I wouldn’t have guessed!” she exclaims convincingly (convincing to everyone but herself, she thinks). The truth is, she would have guessed. She practically did guess. As usual, she got lucky.
“Yeah,” he says, “I don’t exactly dress the part. But I figure, I make enough money to dress however I want when I’m not working.” “But then what’s with the glasses? They’re broken.” With her voice, she turns this statement into one of random curiosity, but in truth, she really wants to know - because it’s the most important question. If he’s lying about being wealthy, she’s wasting her time. If he’s not… “I just broke them this morning,” he responds. “Haven’t had time to get a new pair. But I need them today and I didn’t feel like going out.” Okay. Satisfactory answer… for now.
She smiles and her hand brushes his again. It’s okay for her to touch him, because that means she’s in control. But if he starts touching her… she doesn’t want to think about it. He moves his hand under hers. Her heart starts to beat faster and second thoughts begin to race through her mind. ‘It’s okay’, she tells herself, ‘you’re still in control, just knock it off.’ Don’t blow this. She squelches that voice inside her that tells her she can still stop this now. She tells it to fuck off.
“So what do you do?” he asks. “I’m a prostitute,” she almost responds - but then decides that is not quite the right line to reel in this big of a fish. She actually has used that line on a few of her targets. Instead, she goes with one of her favorite but rarely used lines. This one looks like a little danger might entice him. “I work in a Casino,” she says. “Oh, really?” he responds. “What do you do there?” “Well,” she says, “I’m a… uh…” she leans in and whispers into his ear, making sure her lips brush his ears. “I’m a card counter,” she whispers. He pulls back and looks at her stunned. She is waiting for his reaction - this will determine everything. He smiles. Another good omen.
“Really?” he says. “That’s…” He pauses, looking for a word. “That’s audacious.” “What can I say?” Geraldine responds. “I’m an audacious woman.” She grins and leans her chest in toward him, actually pressing it into his own chest for a span of three seconds. Just enough, she knows - three seconds always turns the trick. She sees his eyes trail down there for a second, but they quickly return to his face as he remembers his manners. She wishes he hadn’t. “Do you make a lot of money?” he asks. “Oh, I make a hell of a lot of money,” she says. “Well…” he starts. He doesn’t say anything and for a second she has trouble maintaining her fake smile. Luckily, it does not falter. “Well, what?” she asks. She does not sound annoyed, but she is quite annoyed.
“Well, do you like it?” he finishes. She laughs aloud, and it sounds practically authentic. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it,” she says. In truth, she doesn’t know if she likes it or not, because she has no idea how to count cards whatsoever. She knows that it involves memorizing which cards have been laid down, but that’s about as far as she can get in that line of thinking. It is practically beyond her. She is much better at being a professional sociopath/psychopath than a professional card counter. “Are you passionate about it?” he asks. She looks at him seriously. “Am I passionate about card counting? Are you serious?” she says. “I just want to be rich, that’s all.” He smiles. “I know that feeling,” he says. “And now I’m rich!” She laughs aloud, she thinks of this laugh as laugh number five. It’s somewhat braying, but not so much as to be annoying. She‘s rehearsed it in a mirror many times, in the same mirror that she rehearses her stories and responses to potential questions in. “Good for you!” she bellows, although still in a feminine manner - she wouldn’t want to turn Nate off. “Me too.”
“So do you keep your money in a bank?” he asks. “I mean, aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” She puts on her actress mask - here goes nothing. Time to become a professional card counter, at least for a few minutes. “We’re all afraid of getting caught,” she says, and it sounds convincing. “Isn’t everyone afraid of getting caught for breaking the rules somehow?” He looks at her strangely. “What?” she questions. “Well,” he responds, “I don’t do anything illegal.” “You don’t do anything illegal at all?” she asks. She actually is a little surprised. She makes sure to include it in the performance to give it a more authentic feeling. “You don’t smoke a joint every once in awhile? You don’t speed?” “No, I don’t do drugs, and I don’t drive a car, I just take the 44 to work every day.” “So you’re heading to work now?” she asks. “Isn’t it kind of late?” She also wants to ask, ‘If you’re a structural engineer, why the fuck do you take the bus to work?’ She decides to wait. If he’s not a structural engineer she’ll just ditch his lame ass and go find some other loser steal money from… or maybe more than that. Maybe. She pushes the thought away.
It was 3:45 in the afternoon. Awfully close to 3:44 she thinks. Strange coincidence. Why, it was 3:44 just one minute ago. 3:44 on the 44. As she begins to contemplate it, she realizes she sounds like she’s escaped from the lunatic asylum. She pushes this thought away as well, and puts it in front of her mother to help muffle her still criticizing (and ever-criticizing) voice.
“I don’t have set hours,” he says. “I kind of go in when I want.” “I see,” she says. “Why are you heading downtown?” he asks. “I live there,” she responds, and this much of her story is true. “I’m heading home.” “Where from?” he asks. “Oh,” she says casually, “I’m heading home from a friend’s house.” Time to start the equation. “So if you don’t have set hours, would you care to catch a bite to eat?” He looks hesitant - not a look she expected. “Well,” he says, “I actually just ate before I left the loeft.” The loft, she thinks. Good. She hopes he’s not feeding her a line of bullshit, because it wouldn’t be the first time. Geraldine nods understandingly at his response. She just has to try harder.
“Well, we should do something! It’s so strange we met, you know. I think people come into each other’s lives for a reason.” He nods in agreement. Nate seems to believe so too. “Maybe we’re just supposed to go see a movie or something. Just one time.” He shakes his head, this time not in agreement. “Sorry, I don’t go to the movies,” he says. “You don’t?” she asks. “Why not?” “I prefer books,’ he says meekly, and he sounds slightly embarrassed. “I just think movies… most of them are pretty awful. I watch one every now and again but I’m just not interested in anything that’s out and I pretty much never am.” She doesn’t know what to do, she needs to figure out some way to keep him from going to work. Before she can think of something, he speaks.
“You never answered my question,” he says. ‘What question?’ she thinks. ‘What the hell is he talking about?’ “What‘s that?” she asks. “Where do you keep your money? In a bank?” She shakes her head then looks around, pretending to care whether or not people are listening. Someone actually is listening, but she pretends not to see it and looks back at Nate. “I keep it at my apartment,” she finally replies. “Really? Like, stuffed in a mattress?” She smiles at him mysteriously. “Something like that,” she says.
The 44 reaches their destination - the corner of 9th and State Boulevard. The bus screeches to a halt and the two step off. It wasn’t a very long distance, but she has to take whatever idiot with too much money that God happens to throw in her way. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any, and things seem to be going smoothly so far. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” he says. She looks disappointed. It can’t end like this. Everything happens for a reason, right? Right?
“It doesn’t have to be,” she says, and she tries to sound as erotic as possible. She leans in to him and puts his hand on her chest. “We can go back to my apartment,” she says. “And hang out there. Or something.” She didn’t want to take him back to the apartment - she’s already brought too many people back there. It gets messy. She doesn’t like to have to kill them. But this one… he’s a fucking structural engineer. He’s loaded. She can knock him out with a spiked drink - a “mickey” like the one George slipped to Elaine’s boss in Seinfeld - and when he wakes up she can torture his PIN numbers out of him and empty his bank account. Then she’ll come back and kill him, but she’ll be quick about it, and like the others she’ll dissolve him in the bath tub. Her apartment might stink for a few days but she’s developed a habit for cleaning up large, goopy messes. Most of them just go down the drain anyway, and whatever is left over just requires a little bleach and soaking to take care of…
There have been seven so far. Nate makes eight. She knows she’s taking big risks to even have killed this many, but there’s more to it than the money, a part of her knows. There is the power that comes with it. She likes the blood, damn it. Something about inflicting the pain and watching that blood flow turns her on. Something about tasting it’s metallic flavor on her tongue… It’s one of the only things that does turn her on. In fact, it may be the only thing. But she’s not graduated to the psychological state of a mass murdering lunatic yet… she’s just feeling her way around it. At least she thinks so.
“Okay,” he says, and his demeanor has suddenly changed. Nate leans in and kisses her on the lips quickly, then blushes again, flushing his cheeks with a bright, almost cartoonish crimson. He looks completely surprised at his newfound unabashed courage. She brings out the best in him, she thinks. Unfortunately for him. He slips his hand in hers and they walk to her apartment, on the corner of Olive and Johnson. It’s a cold gray brick building that seems to have been standing fifty years longer than any building should ever stand. They walk up the old to her room, number 23, and walk inside.
Her apartment is dingy. It looks clean, however. A light brown coffee table sits on the dark brown wood floor in the center of the room. There is a couch to the left of it, and to the far right, up against the wall, is a 1994 Magnavox “big screen TV” (that’s what they called medium screen TV’s in those days). There are black curtains on the windows, only two of which are in the living room. The window on the left, which is near a door that leads to the bedroom, has it’s curtains pulled closed. The curtains on the right hang open and sunlight pours into the room, leaving a long square on the hardwood floor. In the back right corner of the room is an open doorway which leads into the kitchen. Geraldine walks toward it.
“Would you like a drink?” she asks Nate. “Sure…” he says shyly. She laughs as she walks into the kitchen. “I thought you didn’t do drugs,” she calls out to him. “I don’t,” he calls back in to her from the living room. “Well, alcohol is a drug, it just happens to be legal,” she responds, but not quite as loudly. She grabs a bottle of red wine and opens it, then grabs two wine glasses from her cabinet and pours them halfway full. She reaches into the back of the cabinet and pulls out an unmarked orange bottle. She opens it, grabs a pill, then drops it in the wine glass on the left and returns the pill bottle to it’s hiding place in the cabinet. She lets it sit for a moment watching it dissolve, and she knows that there will not be a trace of it left by the time she hands him the glass in the living room. “Here I come!” she calls out, and she notes that Nate does not respond.
She walks into the living room and what she sees makes her drop her two wine glasses. She starts to gasp immediately and backs up, feeling the breath sucked out of her lungs. This is not possible. This is not happening. All of these thoughts go through her mind in the second that the glasses are falling, and finally they shatter on the floor, leaving a mess on the floor that will not be cleaned (at least not by Geraldine). A remnant of the mostly-dissolved white pill lays in the pool of shattered glass and wine on the left of her.
Standing there smiling at Geraldine is an enormous black… thing. It’s skin is as deep as the deepest black she can imagine, and it’s appears to be oily and wet. It has fat pink lips, which when opened reveal purple gums with jagged yellow teeth sticking out of them like broken rocks. It’s head is bald, and it has strange human-looking eyes, only strange because they appear to be much larger than normal. They are ice blue, and they pierce into her like icicles.
“Geraldine,” it says smiling, and it‘s voice is grating and almost unbearable. She has imagined demons speaking - haven‘t we all? They did not sound like this in her head. She thinks she can hear fingernails on chalk superimposed over it’s low grumbling. She begins to scream, she can‘t stop herself. “There will be none of that,” the black thing says, and suddenly she can scream no longer. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her voice has left her, and not only her voice, but her ability to produce any sort of noise at all with her throat. It’s as if all sound she creates is immediately sucked into a vacuum. Feeling helpless, she begins to back up quickly and walk into the kitchen. “Geraldine,” the thing calls as it walks toward her. “Too many bodies,” it says. “You should have stopped at seven.”
She sees it’s fingers curl around the wall and knows it is about to be on her. She also notes with sick awareness how it’s hands leave greasy smudges on the wallpaper, and she notices that it is in fact grease that is dripping from the thing, making it look oily. It’s bloodshot eyes peek around the corner and stare at her, then it’s whole face comes into view. “What do you think happens to bad people?” the thing asks. “Not all of them end up like you, but some of them do.” No! She’s not ending at all! This is a fucking nightmare! This is not possible, there are no such things as monsters… aside from her, anyway.
“Oh, there are worse monsters than you,” the thing says. “You think you’re one of the biggest, baddest fucking monsters of them all. You think you’re God. You think you are large and in charge,” it scratches at her with it’s strange voice. “You told me all of your secrets… because all of your truths are in all of your lies. When you told them to the mirror, you told them to me, Geraldine…“ She begins to shake her head furiously. ‘No!’ she wants to scream, but she cannot speak. It occurs to her to pray, but she cannot pray either. Then it grins it’s perverse smile at her, and purple blood begins to leak from between it’s cracked teeth, and through the large pores in it‘s gums. “The truth is you’re just little and petty. You’re pathetic and sad. All of your bent and lean are as nothing, your kind in whole is not even equal to a single demon. You think you are the worst, but I exist to teach you otherwise. Geraldine, I am here to teach you that there are gods much greater than you, and that there are monsters much worse.”
(the end)
from here without my expressed written permission is against the law.
The electronic documents posted here are the intellectual property of Michael Christopher Thompson II. Copyright 2009.
The 44
The world is full of people who do what they can, but there are not enough of them to count. There have never been enough of them. There are always excuses to be made and habits to be sublimated. People often tell themselves lies and when enough people tell themselves the same lie, that lie becomes a truth. This fact has been known by people who crave power and control for centuries, and that’s why it’s become such an important Truth as some people call it, with the capital T for emphasis that THIS REALLY IS THE TRUTH. Geraldine knows about all this. She knows how people lie to themselves and each other and how the lies are pet and fed and groomed and taken care of, how they are domesticated.
The lie is the most powerful poison, she knows, because people drink of it with full awareness. Oh yes, Geraldine thinks, they pretend sometimes that they didn’t know they were lying to themselves or each other. “I just misunderstood you!” some will say, or even worse, “You misunderstand me!” This is how it always works. So Geraldine has been a liar all her life, and the most potent kind; the kind that finds no shame in her wrongdoing, the type that actually finds a sick virtue in it.
Geraldine is what most people might refer to as a “sociopath.” On the few occasions that she has thought of herself this way, she has found it amusing that others have actually come up with a label so completely logical and stupid at the same time. Sociopath. How ridiculous. What does it even mean? It’s not quite a psychopath. Psychopaths cause physical harm. A sociopath is someone who knowingly lies to everyone. But in Geraldine’s experience, over half of the people walking the face of the planet are sociopaths. And “the experts” have designated a condition for people who openly acknowledge it?
Once again, how ridiculous.
Besides, sometimes she slips over from sociopath to psychopath - who said there was a line, anyway?
Geraldine has dark brown hair - almost black, really. It hangs to her shoulders and is straight. It looks like she’s dyed it, although not very often. Her eyes are a light brown, almost hazel. She is in her late twenties, twenty-seven actually. She’s wearing a purple top and a black mini-skirt. She’s not the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’s beautiful enough to be a good sociopath, and she takes pride in this fact.
She’s staring at the bus stop from across the street right now. There’s a boy in there, waiting for a bus. He’s wearing a red baseball cap, but there is no logo or word on it whatsoever. His t-shirt is white, also plain, and he’s wearing a pair of plain white blue jeans. There’s a black hooded sweatshirt zipped half-way up his chest. He looks to be in his early twenties and his hair is sandy brown. His eyes are light blue, but not particularly striking. That is not to say that all human eyes are not simply amazing in and of themselves, it is just to say that his eyes don’t stand out any more than anyone else’s would. He’s also wearing a pair of what some might describe as “emo” glasses, with a piece of tape around them in the middle. He looks kind of cute, she thinks, but he will never be a heart throb, and especially not with this absurd glasses. Still, she homes in on him immediately.
This is the route 44 bus stop - it should be arriving here momentarily, around 4:38 is when it was scheduled to arrive actually. It’s 4:39 now. She doesn’t see it heading this way, and she wonders if it’s running late. Well, of course it’s running late, she thinks - why wonder? Inside of her head the chastising and hateful voice of her mother calls her a complete fucking idiot. She ignores it, as usual (but not as always).
Geraldine is standing on a corner - the corner of Duncan and Lyle, actually - and waiting for the orange, cautionary “DON’T WALK” signal to turn to a white, welcoming “WALK SIGNAL” - a “COME RIGHT THIS WAY” signal. The kind which lures unaware pedestrians into a street and at the same time fails to detect oncoming drunk drivers. It’s a strange thought, yes, but let’s not forget that Geraldine is a sociopath/psychopath. She’s always thinking about other people dying. Other people.
A loud piercing pitch breaks into the air quickly after the signal changes and without warning it begins to wail. This horrible noise signals deaf people to cross the street, Geraldine knows. But she’s not deaf. Not yet, anyway. She will be if the fucking thing doesn’t turn off soon.
It does as the thought ends, on cue. She crosses slowly. The crossing signal begins to flash yellow and there are cars now heading toward her. She is walking rather slowly, on purpose - in hopes of attracting the boy’s attention. It’s a good omen that the bus is late - it’s almost like the universe left this one here for her, ripe for the plucking.
There is still no bus coming. It begins to rain suddenly and she shrieks. It‘s as if God knows her intentions and has decided to soak her, because the rain starts pouring immediately as if it had been doing so all day - there is no slight drizzle to get things started. “Fuck!” she yells. The boy looks her way. The “COME HITHER” signal now screams “DON’T WALK” again. A car pulls up to her and honks. “Get out of the way!” shrieks an old man from inside, and he actually raises his fist at her.
She raises one at him in return, except hers has a standing middle finger. He returns one of his own and drives around her. She looks at him hatefully as he speeds off for a moment and almost gets hit by another car - but she manages to dodge out of the way just in time. The 99 Dodge Neon honks at her and a second middle finger is thrown out of the passenger window, which is rolled down just enough to stick a hand out. Afterward it immediately rolls back up, shielding them from the rain that she is not shielded from. She steps onto the corner of Evanston and Lyle. The boy pulls out an umbrella and opens it, and she walks toward him. “Care to share?” she asks. “Uh, sure,” he responds. he steps under the umbrella. She is not wearing a jacket.
“I’m Lillian,” Geraldine says to the boy, and she offers her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lillian,” the boy responds Cordially. “My name is Nate.” She smiles at him, and she can see she’s picked a good one. Blushes blossom on his cheeks and he turns away. “Lovely to meet you, Nate,” she says. “Where are you headed?” “I’m going downtown,” he says. “Waiting for the 44. It’s late.” “It’s usually not late,” she responds casually. “By the way, thanks for letting me share your umbrella.” He looks at her and flashes a courageous half-smile. He shows teeth - a little, anyway. “Any time,” he says happily. She grins. “I might just have to take you up on that offer again sometime, then,” she replies with a hint of eroticism in her voice, and his blushing returns at full strength immediately. He looks away again.
The 44 is coming, they see now, heading right this way. “You heading downtown too?” Nate asks her. “Yes,” she says, and thinks ‘I’m going wherever you’re going.’ They climb on the bus together, and Nate’s hand brushes hers. He imagines he feels an electric shock, and she imagines she doesn’t feel slight revulsion at his touch. She doesn’t like it when they touch her. It’s invading personal space. It makes her feel very uncomfortable. When she gets very uncomfortable, it’s not usually a good omen.
They move to the back of the bus and sit together. He looks somewhat surprised that she’s sat next to him, and she sees it flash in his eyes and regards it with a satisfaction that she can almost taste. Yes, she thinks, she’s really hooked a good one this time. But what is she going to do with him? She doesn’t know yet. She just saw the sucker as she was walking down the street, and she knew there was something in this for her. That’s how it always works. There’s always a tip-off. Usually she can tell what it is that makes her think someone will make good prey - it’s often the way they’re standing, the way they’re dressed or how aware they appear to be of their surroundings (although sometimes Geraldine has been faced with the unpleasant reminder that looks can be deceiving, as some individuals are well aware how to spot people like her). There are many tip-offs. Not with Nate,though. She doesn’t know why, but something told her that he’s going to be one of the biggest suckers of her long career in first-hand sociopathological research, and she can’t put her finger on what it is about him exactly that makes it so obvious. But it’s as obvious as darkness to a blind man. Maybe it’s the glasses?
“So what do you do?” she asks. He smiles, looking glad to be asked. “Oh, I’m an engineer,” he responds. “Really?” she says incredulously, a good tactic for feigning interest she has discovered. “What kind of an engineer?” His smile widens. “I’m a structural engineer, actually, I build bridges.” “I wouldn’t have guessed!” she exclaims convincingly (convincing to everyone but herself, she thinks). The truth is, she would have guessed. She practically did guess. As usual, she got lucky.
“Yeah,” he says, “I don’t exactly dress the part. But I figure, I make enough money to dress however I want when I’m not working.” “But then what’s with the glasses? They’re broken.” With her voice, she turns this statement into one of random curiosity, but in truth, she really wants to know - because it’s the most important question. If he’s lying about being wealthy, she’s wasting her time. If he’s not… “I just broke them this morning,” he responds. “Haven’t had time to get a new pair. But I need them today and I didn’t feel like going out.” Okay. Satisfactory answer… for now.
She smiles and her hand brushes his again. It’s okay for her to touch him, because that means she’s in control. But if he starts touching her… she doesn’t want to think about it. He moves his hand under hers. Her heart starts to beat faster and second thoughts begin to race through her mind. ‘It’s okay’, she tells herself, ‘you’re still in control, just knock it off.’ Don’t blow this. She squelches that voice inside her that tells her she can still stop this now. She tells it to fuck off.
“So what do you do?” he asks. “I’m a prostitute,” she almost responds - but then decides that is not quite the right line to reel in this big of a fish. She actually has used that line on a few of her targets. Instead, she goes with one of her favorite but rarely used lines. This one looks like a little danger might entice him. “I work in a Casino,” she says. “Oh, really?” he responds. “What do you do there?” “Well,” she says, “I’m a… uh…” she leans in and whispers into his ear, making sure her lips brush his ears. “I’m a card counter,” she whispers. He pulls back and looks at her stunned. She is waiting for his reaction - this will determine everything. He smiles. Another good omen.
“Really?” he says. “That’s…” He pauses, looking for a word. “That’s audacious.” “What can I say?” Geraldine responds. “I’m an audacious woman.” She grins and leans her chest in toward him, actually pressing it into his own chest for a span of three seconds. Just enough, she knows - three seconds always turns the trick. She sees his eyes trail down there for a second, but they quickly return to his face as he remembers his manners. She wishes he hadn’t. “Do you make a lot of money?” he asks. “Oh, I make a hell of a lot of money,” she says. “Well…” he starts. He doesn’t say anything and for a second she has trouble maintaining her fake smile. Luckily, it does not falter. “Well, what?” she asks. She does not sound annoyed, but she is quite annoyed.
“Well, do you like it?” he finishes. She laughs aloud, and it sounds practically authentic. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it,” she says. In truth, she doesn’t know if she likes it or not, because she has no idea how to count cards whatsoever. She knows that it involves memorizing which cards have been laid down, but that’s about as far as she can get in that line of thinking. It is practically beyond her. She is much better at being a professional sociopath/psychopath than a professional card counter. “Are you passionate about it?” he asks. She looks at him seriously. “Am I passionate about card counting? Are you serious?” she says. “I just want to be rich, that’s all.” He smiles. “I know that feeling,” he says. “And now I’m rich!” She laughs aloud, she thinks of this laugh as laugh number five. It’s somewhat braying, but not so much as to be annoying. She‘s rehearsed it in a mirror many times, in the same mirror that she rehearses her stories and responses to potential questions in. “Good for you!” she bellows, although still in a feminine manner - she wouldn’t want to turn Nate off. “Me too.”
“So do you keep your money in a bank?” he asks. “I mean, aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” She puts on her actress mask - here goes nothing. Time to become a professional card counter, at least for a few minutes. “We’re all afraid of getting caught,” she says, and it sounds convincing. “Isn’t everyone afraid of getting caught for breaking the rules somehow?” He looks at her strangely. “What?” she questions. “Well,” he responds, “I don’t do anything illegal.” “You don’t do anything illegal at all?” she asks. She actually is a little surprised. She makes sure to include it in the performance to give it a more authentic feeling. “You don’t smoke a joint every once in awhile? You don’t speed?” “No, I don’t do drugs, and I don’t drive a car, I just take the 44 to work every day.” “So you’re heading to work now?” she asks. “Isn’t it kind of late?” She also wants to ask, ‘If you’re a structural engineer, why the fuck do you take the bus to work?’ She decides to wait. If he’s not a structural engineer she’ll just ditch his lame ass and go find some other loser steal money from… or maybe more than that. Maybe. She pushes the thought away.
It was 3:45 in the afternoon. Awfully close to 3:44 she thinks. Strange coincidence. Why, it was 3:44 just one minute ago. 3:44 on the 44. As she begins to contemplate it, she realizes she sounds like she’s escaped from the lunatic asylum. She pushes this thought away as well, and puts it in front of her mother to help muffle her still criticizing (and ever-criticizing) voice.
“I don’t have set hours,” he says. “I kind of go in when I want.” “I see,” she says. “Why are you heading downtown?” he asks. “I live there,” she responds, and this much of her story is true. “I’m heading home.” “Where from?” he asks. “Oh,” she says casually, “I’m heading home from a friend’s house.” Time to start the equation. “So if you don’t have set hours, would you care to catch a bite to eat?” He looks hesitant - not a look she expected. “Well,” he says, “I actually just ate before I left the loeft.” The loft, she thinks. Good. She hopes he’s not feeding her a line of bullshit, because it wouldn’t be the first time. Geraldine nods understandingly at his response. She just has to try harder.
“Well, we should do something! It’s so strange we met, you know. I think people come into each other’s lives for a reason.” He nods in agreement. Nate seems to believe so too. “Maybe we’re just supposed to go see a movie or something. Just one time.” He shakes his head, this time not in agreement. “Sorry, I don’t go to the movies,” he says. “You don’t?” she asks. “Why not?” “I prefer books,’ he says meekly, and he sounds slightly embarrassed. “I just think movies… most of them are pretty awful. I watch one every now and again but I’m just not interested in anything that’s out and I pretty much never am.” She doesn’t know what to do, she needs to figure out some way to keep him from going to work. Before she can think of something, he speaks.
“You never answered my question,” he says. ‘What question?’ she thinks. ‘What the hell is he talking about?’ “What‘s that?” she asks. “Where do you keep your money? In a bank?” She shakes her head then looks around, pretending to care whether or not people are listening. Someone actually is listening, but she pretends not to see it and looks back at Nate. “I keep it at my apartment,” she finally replies. “Really? Like, stuffed in a mattress?” She smiles at him mysteriously. “Something like that,” she says.
The 44 reaches their destination - the corner of 9th and State Boulevard. The bus screeches to a halt and the two step off. It wasn’t a very long distance, but she has to take whatever idiot with too much money that God happens to throw in her way. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any, and things seem to be going smoothly so far. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” he says. She looks disappointed. It can’t end like this. Everything happens for a reason, right? Right?
“It doesn’t have to be,” she says, and she tries to sound as erotic as possible. She leans in to him and puts his hand on her chest. “We can go back to my apartment,” she says. “And hang out there. Or something.” She didn’t want to take him back to the apartment - she’s already brought too many people back there. It gets messy. She doesn’t like to have to kill them. But this one… he’s a fucking structural engineer. He’s loaded. She can knock him out with a spiked drink - a “mickey” like the one George slipped to Elaine’s boss in Seinfeld - and when he wakes up she can torture his PIN numbers out of him and empty his bank account. Then she’ll come back and kill him, but she’ll be quick about it, and like the others she’ll dissolve him in the bath tub. Her apartment might stink for a few days but she’s developed a habit for cleaning up large, goopy messes. Most of them just go down the drain anyway, and whatever is left over just requires a little bleach and soaking to take care of…
There have been seven so far. Nate makes eight. She knows she’s taking big risks to even have killed this many, but there’s more to it than the money, a part of her knows. There is the power that comes with it. She likes the blood, damn it. Something about inflicting the pain and watching that blood flow turns her on. Something about tasting it’s metallic flavor on her tongue… It’s one of the only things that does turn her on. In fact, it may be the only thing. But she’s not graduated to the psychological state of a mass murdering lunatic yet… she’s just feeling her way around it. At least she thinks so.
“Okay,” he says, and his demeanor has suddenly changed. Nate leans in and kisses her on the lips quickly, then blushes again, flushing his cheeks with a bright, almost cartoonish crimson. He looks completely surprised at his newfound unabashed courage. She brings out the best in him, she thinks. Unfortunately for him. He slips his hand in hers and they walk to her apartment, on the corner of Olive and Johnson. It’s a cold gray brick building that seems to have been standing fifty years longer than any building should ever stand. They walk up the old to her room, number 23, and walk inside.
Her apartment is dingy. It looks clean, however. A light brown coffee table sits on the dark brown wood floor in the center of the room. There is a couch to the left of it, and to the far right, up against the wall, is a 1994 Magnavox “big screen TV” (that’s what they called medium screen TV’s in those days). There are black curtains on the windows, only two of which are in the living room. The window on the left, which is near a door that leads to the bedroom, has it’s curtains pulled closed. The curtains on the right hang open and sunlight pours into the room, leaving a long square on the hardwood floor. In the back right corner of the room is an open doorway which leads into the kitchen. Geraldine walks toward it.
“Would you like a drink?” she asks Nate. “Sure…” he says shyly. She laughs as she walks into the kitchen. “I thought you didn’t do drugs,” she calls out to him. “I don’t,” he calls back in to her from the living room. “Well, alcohol is a drug, it just happens to be legal,” she responds, but not quite as loudly. She grabs a bottle of red wine and opens it, then grabs two wine glasses from her cabinet and pours them halfway full. She reaches into the back of the cabinet and pulls out an unmarked orange bottle. She opens it, grabs a pill, then drops it in the wine glass on the left and returns the pill bottle to it’s hiding place in the cabinet. She lets it sit for a moment watching it dissolve, and she knows that there will not be a trace of it left by the time she hands him the glass in the living room. “Here I come!” she calls out, and she notes that Nate does not respond.
She walks into the living room and what she sees makes her drop her two wine glasses. She starts to gasp immediately and backs up, feeling the breath sucked out of her lungs. This is not possible. This is not happening. All of these thoughts go through her mind in the second that the glasses are falling, and finally they shatter on the floor, leaving a mess on the floor that will not be cleaned (at least not by Geraldine). A remnant of the mostly-dissolved white pill lays in the pool of shattered glass and wine on the left of her.
Standing there smiling at Geraldine is an enormous black… thing. It’s skin is as deep as the deepest black she can imagine, and it’s appears to be oily and wet. It has fat pink lips, which when opened reveal purple gums with jagged yellow teeth sticking out of them like broken rocks. It’s head is bald, and it has strange human-looking eyes, only strange because they appear to be much larger than normal. They are ice blue, and they pierce into her like icicles.
“Geraldine,” it says smiling, and it‘s voice is grating and almost unbearable. She has imagined demons speaking - haven‘t we all? They did not sound like this in her head. She thinks she can hear fingernails on chalk superimposed over it’s low grumbling. She begins to scream, she can‘t stop herself. “There will be none of that,” the black thing says, and suddenly she can scream no longer. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her voice has left her, and not only her voice, but her ability to produce any sort of noise at all with her throat. It’s as if all sound she creates is immediately sucked into a vacuum. Feeling helpless, she begins to back up quickly and walk into the kitchen. “Geraldine,” the thing calls as it walks toward her. “Too many bodies,” it says. “You should have stopped at seven.”
She sees it’s fingers curl around the wall and knows it is about to be on her. She also notes with sick awareness how it’s hands leave greasy smudges on the wallpaper, and she notices that it is in fact grease that is dripping from the thing, making it look oily. It’s bloodshot eyes peek around the corner and stare at her, then it’s whole face comes into view. “What do you think happens to bad people?” the thing asks. “Not all of them end up like you, but some of them do.” No! She’s not ending at all! This is a fucking nightmare! This is not possible, there are no such things as monsters… aside from her, anyway.
“Oh, there are worse monsters than you,” the thing says. “You think you’re one of the biggest, baddest fucking monsters of them all. You think you’re God. You think you are large and in charge,” it scratches at her with it’s strange voice. “You told me all of your secrets… because all of your truths are in all of your lies. When you told them to the mirror, you told them to me, Geraldine…“ She begins to shake her head furiously. ‘No!’ she wants to scream, but she cannot speak. It occurs to her to pray, but she cannot pray either. Then it grins it’s perverse smile at her, and purple blood begins to leak from between it’s cracked teeth, and through the large pores in it‘s gums. “The truth is you’re just little and petty. You’re pathetic and sad. All of your bent and lean are as nothing, your kind in whole is not even equal to a single demon. You think you are the worst, but I exist to teach you otherwise. Geraldine, I am here to teach you that there are gods much greater than you, and that there are monsters much worse.”
(the end)