Partyers Are Endangered Species
The first blow caught her off guard — like a bad news on a Sunday morning. It rocked her head vigorously to the left, where it came to a brutal, gory and crimson end, colliding with an old oak tree. Blood splattered on an unparalleled pattern on the tree’s heavy trunk. It bore a weird semblance to Picasso’s paintings. If it were an art piece, it would have been called: NATURE’S HOLD ON HUMANITY. Maybe it would have won the Pulitzer prize — just maybe. The girl was as dead as a log of wood before she even hit the ground. It rained previously the other night — so her body made a squelchy sound as it sank deeply and quickly in mud and water. Later that day in the coroner’s office — after the body was found and examined, it was deduced that something heavy with a flat hardened surface severed her spine from her neck roughly.
There were multiple fractures on her skull, a heavy dent at the base of her skull, and skin lacerations. Discovering the body must have been a grotesque view for poor, poor Jackson. According to witnesses — he let out an inhumane shrill as soon as he came in contact with the body. Poor boy was playing hide and seek with his buddies when he found the body. All the therapy sessions in the world won’t erase the horrific, putrefying and twisted picturesque of the corpse from poor Jackson’s mind.
What was even more weird about the corpse was the coagulated blood stain on her thighs. She was killed, then tyrannically raped. People can be so savage? This was the third victim in just two weeks. Two weeks! Who was responsible for this gruesome act of inhumanity? What was the motive? Why kill your victims before raping them? Answers were left adrift — floating, fluttering, without finding aid. The police had no immediate idea, no suspects, just diastase for the bastard responsible for doing this.
What kind of sick, voyeuristic, necrophiliac bastard does this? Captain Morgan asked no one in particular. What kind of whoreson? The media and their interviews didn’t make it any better — they made it worse, the internet came up with crazy, petrifying theories.
The Boogeyman.
Baba yega.
Genghis Khan.
The spirits of the second war nazi soldiers.
Ted Bundy reincarnated.
Captain Morgan, it has been months now, when are you going to catch the rape raider?
With a broken, husky and parched voice Captain Morgan answered the thirsty news reporter.
Rape raider? That’s the name you going to call the killer?
Are you more concerned about the name, or about catching the culprit, Captain?
That was Alfred Thomas with the CBA news. Alfred was a short, sturdy man with deep eyes and a protruding potbelly—deep eyes that had bags under them. He gained international recognition after he uncovered a coven of gay politicians and got a lot of money from the lawsuit filed against them. Ipso facto — before the recognition, he was known as a deadly journalist with mind boggling questions. Everybody in the journalism world and outside the journalism world avoided him because of how cold and cruel he could be. Maybe it was because his wife and kids left him, or maybe he was just a sadistic reporter. Whatever the cause was, it made him tough. A tough reporter with sad hazel eyes, a pointed nose — which carried the rim of his glasses, a smooth face, balding head, a tweed jacket and grey jeans.
Morgan sighed deeply and for a brief moment — he thought about exiting the interview and the case. People expect a lot from you especially when you with law enforcement agencies. They expect a lot from you without knowing the sacrifices you have to make. Especially this flipping journalist. Always asking stupid and irrelevant questions. If Morgan doesn’t know better; the journalist was a prime suspect himself. He sighed softly. How could you blame them? The mass public. How could blame them when ignorance is like a contagious disease eating at their thoughts and logical reasonings, how could you?
What the mass public was oblivious about — was catching a rapist like this is quite difficult. Really difficult. Especially if the rapist is a smart one. In this case, the rapist was indeed smart. Intellectual, even. The rapist left no traces — no traces at all. No fingerprints, no hair strands, no body fluids remnants. After raping them, the rapist douses their genitalia with sulfuric acid. Sulfuric acid? Captain Morgan grimaced at the thought. What am I going to do? A lot of families look up to me. What am I going —
Captain, are you okay? You blanked out for a moment. You look pale.
I am sorry, but I have to go.
Yeah, like you are doing with a case as sensitive as this?
With his back turned to the cameras — the clicks, the flashes, the murmurings and cries of incompetence — Captain Morgan wailed inwardly to himself, and walked out. Trying desperately not to clench his fists. That would be bad publicity. But hell, some couple of punches would do Alfred good. Besides, there is no such thing as bad publicity.
God, please help me.
He prayer silently to himself.
Help me.
Capt. Morgan returned back to the coroner’s office. He didn’t like it here. It was always frigid and felt eerily haunted. Something is lurking behind the shadows. Behind the carcasses stacked up in the refrigerators. Behind the souls of the dearly departed. Something. Somewhere. Lurking. Hiding. Waiting.
It was a premonition.
Something was and isn’t always right here.
How the hell does Stark do it?
Identified the body, yet?
Ah, Captain? I didn’t see you there.
The coroner didn’t turn his back to the Captain as he called out to him. His scalpel was deep in the abdominal section of a body before him.
Well, the front door to the lab was opened, I welcomed myself in. Hope you don’t mind? Except of course you’re the rape raider?
Rape raider?
That’s what the media is calling it now. Can you imagine?
I can’t imagine. That’s a horrible pseudonym.
Right? Fucking news reporters!
Indeed, indeed.
So, have you?
Have I what? Ah, yes. This body. The body belongs to a um —
Reading out of a report book, he continued.
Lucy Grace.
Poor, poor, girl. Such a beautiful girl.
Morgan walked towards him — and stayed on the opposite side of the operating table. His mind trying to place this new piece of information into whatever limelight still resided deep inside of his body.
Lucy Grace, huh? Sounds awfully familiar.
Indeed, indeed.
Peering in closer for a better look, Morgan couldn’t help but notice how good she looked. Apart for the contusions, bruises and cuts, she looked good.
He sure did take care of her, eh?
Indeed, indeed.
You see, rapists are like mothers.
As he spoke, the noise mask strapped on both sides of his ears contorted and distorted. As if disagreeing with the use of his language analogy. When the coroner saw the inquisitive puzzled look on Captain Morgan’s face, he elucidated farther.
Well, mothers and babies share a tight bond, right? An unbreakable bond. A bond stronger than all the chemistry, physics and biology bonds. Even after growth, that bond remains. In adulthood — that bond remains. Never dying, never parting ways. The same bond applies to killers and their victims. Rapist and their victims. Only this time — it’s different. It’s psychological. Killing is like a um, what do you call it? A hobby, a weird hobby.
A show of physical and mental dominance. A way to activate the erogenous zones. Do you understand? I am sure you do. To them, what they’re doing is copacetic — no faults here. Just like mothers and babies. No faults here. Even lobotomization won’t help them, they’re that messed up. The only way to help them is by execution.
Execution? No trials, Stark?
Ha!
You must be in a sour desperate mood to call me by my name, Captain — and yes, no trials. Common man, between us, do you really think this scumbag bastard needs trial? I mean, common.
But —
No buts, ifs and maybes. If I were you, I’d shoot that bastard on sight. If you do that, you’re doing the whole world a huge favor. Think about it. Think about what the headline would read on CBA news. Think about national television.
Spreading his blood stained gloves in midair to emphasize his point clearly, Stark went: Captain Morgan finally ended the reign of the rape raider.
That would surely put that asshole reporter Alfred to shame.
I am not after the headlines, old friend. I just want this bastard off the streets. That’s it. That’s all I want right now.
Then you know what you must do. No trails, no trials. No trials, no rape raider.
Morgan sighed deeply. This whole thing is a whole lot. A whole lot of shit. With his eyes fixated on the body of Lucy Grace — Captain Morgan who didn’t believe in God prayed for a miracle. Unknown to him, later that night, his prayers were answered.
All right, Stark, thank you. Gotta go now. Stay safe.
Indeed, Indeed. You, too. Old friend.
Enshrouded from a safe distance in the green covers of a thicket bush — she stalked them. Three girls whose return from a night club was a prospect of good and bad fortune. She stalked them under the crescent moon’s eerie glow — and the chirping sound of arboreal insentient insects. The moon tinted a dull grey glow on her scar-ry, coarse face. She had a scar that ran from the corner of her lips, to her left ear — a constant reminder of the lives she had taken while she raped young powerless girls.
Flawlessly, she moved with discriminate precision. She moved with stealth — she moved inconspicuously — and blended smoothly with the shadows. A quick glimpse, and one might lose sight of the formidable figure in black overalls treading intricately with the night. Her face was as stern as a day old bread, dark, gritty and grim. She wasn’t exactly what people would call pretty, beautiful, or do hoot calls for, no. She is an average looking girl with voluptuous breasts, swollen ass, and a perilous mindset.
Strapped behind her back was a worn-out backpack which contained two liters of sulfuric acid, a black ski mask, blood stained surgical gloves, chloroform, tranquilizer darts, a gun for it, a rock hammer and a swiss army knife.
She was being careful, but this colored girl who she has come to loathe had sharp-witty-rabbit ears. Two times now, she has turned her back to the faint sound of broken twigs, and two times she had cussed herself silently for being a bubble head. If everything played out as planned — that nosy Captain Morgan would find three naked bodies tomorrow at the edge of the woods. At the mere thought of that — her erogenous zones spiked up — engorged. She could feel her nipples hardening — sprouting up like Old woman Tabitha’s vegetables — which made her even madder with pleasure.
The girls were now passing Rosemary’s avenue. Two miles ahead of that avenue was where she murdered another girl. According to the media, her name was Lucy Grace. What a lovely name. Sure did fit the symmetrical contours of her delicate body when that jackhammer found a gory home at the base of her skull.
Ha!
She couldn’t control the outburst, but he could control the resonance.
Dammit, she cussed. And again, the colored girl looked behind her.
So cold. Shoulda brought a sweater.
Hey, guys. I feel someone is stalking us. I just — I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.
See why we don’t bring you to parties, Freida? You paranoid bat.
I’m not being paranoid, Jo. Something doesn’t feel right. Don’t you feel it too, Evelyn?
Inebriated Evelyn laughed out loud, then cried, then laughed, and cried again. She hiccuped — made a faux motion to throw up — then stopped.
Fuck!
Evelyn’s still drunk, eh? This is the last time you guys are dragging me out of my house.
Blah, blah, blah, blah. Yap, yap, yappity, yap, yap. That’s all you do, Freida. You yap like a little bitch.
Oh, shirt the four cup, Jo. Let’s just —
Before she registered what she felt, it was already too late. In words of Jonah Hill, it was like stepping in sunlight, before there was sunlight.
Tranquilizer darts, also known as tranq darts or a sedation dart tool, use a sedative drug combination. Back in the 1950s, the modern tranquilizer gun was first invented in order to sedate the animals for hunting.
Those were the thoughts that crossed her mind as her body felt an incredible amount of immense pain — equivalent to her skin being attacked by bees, her limbs turned to jell-o(s), and her internal organs began to fail her.
Used to sedate animals for hunting? Hunting!
Oh, my? The rape raider.
Evelyn, Jo?
While she wasn’t perceptive of this, she was slurring her words. But it was already too late. Freida slumped down with a light thud.
Blacked out.
She woke up to the strong stench of something acrid drifting carelessly into her nostrils. Is somebody burning something? She thought to herself. Howbeit — that thought felt like a dream. What’s happening? Why can’t I move? Am I in bonds, restraints, shackles, a strait jacket? What’s happening to me? She tried calling out for help, but all her vocals cords in accordance with her lips and lungs could do muster was a lonely weak groan. The only mobile part of her body was her neck. Aside that body part, the rest of her body was immobilized. She turned her neck slightly and slowly to the left, her vision was psychedelic — but she could make out trees, alpines, rocks, the faint chirping of insects, birds, the unconscious or dead body of Evelyn and a flowing stream of water. What the hell was in that dart? Mushrooms?
She craned her neck to the opposite direction and that was when she saw it. The origin of the smell and what instigated it. It wasn’t something acrid, it was burnt flesh.
Kneeling over what looked like the dead body of Jo, the rape raider tore her skirt open, and was literally pouring sulfuric acid on her vagina. She watched as the acid ate through her flesh like hot oil on butter. Cackling, tearing, biting, boring holes, smoldering and boiling at her blood. For some reason, she couldn’t look away, she just watched helplessly — knowing she couldn’t do anything, and knowing she couldn’t help. Soon, she would meet the same fate.
Few hours ago.
Evelyn is already in on this, why are you stubborn, Frie? Common, it would be fun, we’ll meet a lot of hot, sweaty party boys.
Sweaty? You are weird af, sis.
I know right, don’t you want to be weird with meeeee?
Freida’s sister, Jojo made a puppy dog face. An almost irresistible one.
Arrrrrgh, now I can’t say no to that adorable face. Arrgh! But you know I have to study right? I have assignments I need to take care of. If I agree to party with you, we aren’t spending more than two hours there, do you accept this? We have to be home early. The rape raider is out there, we have to be careful.
Yes, yes, whatever, get dressed. Common, lets party. You won’t regret it. And that rape raider is a fairy-tale bullshit.
Okay. Okay. I guess one glass of Chardonnay won’t hurt.
Yaaaay, that’s the spirit, baby.
Take your taser gun and pepper spray gun with you though. The rape raider is no bullshit.
Way ahead of you. Albeit, my bag is all packed up. I left them with Eve.
What’s in your bag? Don’t tell me — makeup kit? You’re the only weirdo I know who brings a makeup kit to a party.
As she talked with her little sister, she slipped her delicate body into a dark chromatic short gown — whose hems were studded with reflective beads and beautiful embroidery designs. A kneel length boot, and dark lip gloss. She looked gothic.
Damn, you hot as Tanzania peppers. Sizzling, baby.
Oh, please, don’t tease. You don’t look bad yourself.
I don’t? You’re being nice.
Jojo was wearing jean shorts with an over-sized t-shirt. For a girl with her height, she looked like a Demi-goddess.
Ha, ha. Can we go now before I change my mind?
Alright. Let’s bounce.
The sound of gravels being crunched under boots dragged her roughly from a regrettable reverie, to a even bitter reality. The rape raider was now walking towards her. Frieda couldn’t shake the thought of the rape raider being a woman. A woman? Well, that’s the plot twist. All this while, the police have been trying to incarcerate a man — because why the hell not? When you hear the word rape, or sex offender, the first gender your mind registers is a man. You wouldn’t think of a woman immediately, which is why catching the rape raider was as difficult as Chinese arithmetic sequences. The police have been working with the wrong mindset, the wrong view and perspective. They have been looking at this from the wrong angle. As the crunching graveling sound got closer — it was hard to tell which resonated loudly. The nonrhythmic beat of Freida’s heart, or the crunch-crunch sound of the rape raider’s boots.
Fear they say is a psychological weapon with psychological effects. Psychological effects being: anxiety, panicking, frenzy state and hyperventilation. All which Freida Is experiencing right now. Trepidation hung tightly on her neck like a bow-tie. She tried moving again — but the attempt was both weak and futile. She looked like a fish flopping on solid ground because of the absence of water.
Strrop.
She muttered weakly.
Strrop, puhreese.
The rapist stood over her, peering down into her face in a crooked like manner.
Strro —
The word didn’t even escape her lips when the hard sole of the rapist’s boot found a comforting home on Freida’s face. She passed out immediately from the pain. Drifting off into unconsciousness.
While she was away, Freida had a dream. A weird bizarre dream. What are dreams made of? Fragments of imaginations? The subconscious mind projecting its own form of reality? An alternative reality, where you are a god? Something supernatural? It’s Indeed a mystery. Nobody knows the origin of dreams. A scientist would tell you it has something to do with your brain, a pastor would tell you something opposite. A pastor would tell you it’s either your fortune, or misfortune. Some prospect into your life. Clairvoyance. But, is it really? We don’t know. We have been told to believe dreams have significant meanings, yes? Yes, it does. According to research — based on 97% statistics of world information, when you eat in a dream, it signifies two things.
The first being a bad omen, maybe death? Suffering? Pain? It could be. The second is different. The second meaning is quite prosperous. The second is a bouquet of flowers, enjoyment, a feast, a dinner made possible in heaven. Other examples are there of course. When you dream of the color yellow, it represents fire — inferno.
So for the remainder of that day, most people steer off anything that relates to fire and the such. But the dream Frieda was having right now — it goes beyond any explanation.
In her dream, she was a fish, flopping around helplessly on sandy shores. Flopping. Flipping. Flopping. Flopping. Her gills a tiny crevice crying for water. Flipping. Flipping. Flopping. Flopping. And just as she was close to the water, a polar bear pinned her down with his white, furry paws. Pressed her down. The weight against her was crushingly heavy. She could feel pains in her fish body. The polar bear reach down to take a chunk of scaly fish meat — hot stinky breath, redolent — and that was when Freida transitioned back into reality.
She woke up to moans of the rape raider travelling to her ears, the body heat heavy, concentrated and emitting from underneath her. The rape raider was on top of her — one hand roughly caressing her bare breasts roughly, the other hand deep in her thighs.
Apart from her bra and panties — she was naked. She tried moving, and again, she couldn’t. Whatever was in that tranq gun held her down firmly. She was down to earth literally. She tried yelling, but all she managed to do was mumble unintelligible words. A gag was positioned methodically around her mouth. She just lay there, flopping weakly, as the rape raider had her way with her. Tears threatened to invade her eyes — but how much more can one person resist? Her rebellious and resilient regime was condescendingly coming to a brutal, stigmatizing end. She felt the fingers of the rape raider deep inside of her — thrusting rather roughly and painfully. Momentum never loosing acceleration nor velocity. She could feel stub fingernails tearing her flesh both externally and internally. Freida curled her toes involuntarily, closed her eyes, tears percolating through sealed eyelids. No orifice was spared. Losing your virginity through this gruesome way was as diabolical as it was heartbreaking. Every part of her body hurt. Her breasts she assumed now must be bruised from all the rough handling. The biting of the nipples like a wild animal was sure to rip bits of it off.
She just lay there, feeling the warm trickle of blood on her thighs slow down a bit, and then coagulation is due to start.
So this is it? She thought to herself. This is how I die? Giving up to the realization — Freida didn’t see Evelyn creeping up sluggishly behind the rape raider with a taser gun held firmly in her grip.
Few moments ago.
Evelyn woke up to a sharp pricking pain eating at her neck and the repulsive redolent of bile infiltrating her nostrils.
What happened? She thought. Where’s everyone? What’s happening? The last thing she remembered was the partying at Bisola’s apartment. Everything after that was gone with the wind. Fluttering out of her memory, and into the effervescent of the night. She tried moving but her left hand — it was unresponsive. Her left hand was as dead as a stroke victim’s penis.
That pain again — what was that? The pain is unrelentingly disturbing. Tugging at her neck like a constant, aching migraine. Itching, biting, begging for awareness. Slowly, and painfully, she used her right arm to traced the pain on her neck. Trying to smother it — trying to calm frayed nerves. But something else was there in its stead — sticking out like a leech — causing her discomfort and pain. Evelyn pulled at it — and in a swift motion, the dart from the tranq gun sticking out her neck came off. The pain she felt five minutes ago started to recede slowly.
What the fuck?
Only it came out as:
Warrh darh furh?
She was slurring her words, too. But not as badly as Freida was. Although, she doesn’t know this yet. What’s happening? She could feel both her legs, could move them even, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Something wasn’t right with this whole thing. Where’s Jojo and Freida? Where are my friends? As if to answer her question — she heard a slight thud, followed by a weak groan. Craning her neck to the direction of the noise, she saw a figure in dark overalls standing over what looked like a faded out Freida. The rape raider? Oh my! Quickly, she connected the dots. The rape raider captured them. Oh my, Frieda. Where’s Jojo? Looking around conspicuously for Jojo — Eve couldn’t spot her friend. Few minutes before she regained consciousness, the rape raider disposed the body of Jojo.
Watching and being able to do nothing, the rape raider stayed in close proxy with Freida — lips caressing Freida’s own oppressively. Hands cupped Freida’s breasts. Pleasure she presumed devoured the rape raider. The rape raider tore Freida’s clothes open. Her beautiful gown ripped apart in seconds. The rest was hard to watch. Evelyn lay there knowing that after Freida, she was next.
What do I do? Please, God. Help me. And like an answered prayer, she remembered the taser gun.
Slowly and carefully — applying precautionary measures in other not to alert the rape raider, Evelyn’s hand traveled to the deep abyss of her pockets where she kept the taser gun. She hoped against all odds it was safe and unbroken there.
Please God, let it be safe and unharmed — she inwardly thought to herself.
Her phalanges came in contact with what felt like liquid. What’s that? She perused the liquid, trying to understand what it was. When she felt the hotness of the liquid burning at her hands — she knew then that It was the pepper spray gun. It was apparently busted and its contents was out on the floor, and drenched on her clothes. Her hands traveled deeper, and that was when she found the taser gun. With her fingers serving as an inspection tool, she could tell the taser gun was in good condition. No obvious dents whatsoever. Even if there was, Eve didn’t couldn’t just sit around. She knew she had to at least try something.
A loud yelp made her did things quicker than she planned to. The yelp was from behind her. It was coming from Freida. It sounded like a desperate cry for help. Risking her life, Evelyn made a quick covert turn, and saw the rape raider standing over Freida, with the glass of sulfuric acid on her hands.
Freida clutched her beautiful torn out gown tightly to chest like a teddy bear — obviously defeated and waiting for death. Her underwear exposed — and waiting for the corroded flow of sulfuric acid.
Everything the police had on the rape raider was faux.
The rape raider isn’t a man, it’s a woman.
The rape raider’s pattern of death isn’t predictable.
The rape raider has no known motive.
The rape raider is psychopathic-ally ill.
News report said something killing of the victims before raping them? Well , that’s fortunate. Those victims are fortunate and lucky. At least the pain won’t matter. Nothing would matter. What would matter was life after death. Freida exhaled. She wished she was fortunate and lucky, too. She was tired, immobilized, fatigue. She closed her eyes, and waited the sweet abyss of nothingness.
Evelyn quickly got up — an unprecedented wave of nausea hitting her like cascading brick walls. Evelyn moved sluggishly, like a girl possessed by demons, and inebriated with alcohol.
Stop it, you fuck!
The rape raider stood over Frieda, shocked.
How are you up?
Holy shit. You’re female? You’re female!
How are you up?
Drank five litres of alcohol, bitch. I don’t think your dart has any effect on me?
Still unable to move, Frieda looked at Evelyn. A smile of gratitude was trying to formulate on her bruised face, but she just couldn’t. Her eyes were bloodshot red. Her vagina looks like butchered meat. Gory and red.
Don’t you worry, Frieda, I’ll get you out of here.
Can you stand, can you walk?
Barely.
Damn. Even her voice sounded dead.
Do you even know how to use that weapon?
That was the rape raider.
Want to find out?
Shoot her, already.
That was Frieda.
Evelyn squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. She squeezed again — nothing happened.
What the. .
The rape raider didn’t wait for the words to escape her lips. She dove right at Evelyn, knocking the gun out of her hands. Evelyn who was hardly standing didn’t stand a chance. She fell down immediately, landed heavily on her back — with her head bouncing roughly on a rock. The rape raider was quickly on top her — coarse hands like slimy tentacles around Evelyn’s neck. Strangulating and shaking. Evelyn coughed, choked, spasmed, and kicked. She was fighting to shake the rape raider off, but it was a futile attempt. The weight was heavy on her chest. Oxygen supply was cut off. Her eyes were beginning to close, her face turning white. Her hands that were clawing at the rape raider’s face was beginning to lose ferocity. She was giving up. The rape raider didn’t stop — her hand still pressed the soft neck belonging to Evelyn. She could feel the Adam apple crumble under sheer force. Few minutes later, Evelyn was dead. Immobilized. Unresponsive.
Freida watched everything play out, but was unable to help. The taser gun was few feet in front of her, but what’s the use? It was busted. She lay there, crying over her dead friend.
Flopping weakly.
Like a fish.
Like a fish in her dream.
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