Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies Page 9

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Drinking OJ! LOL!!

  Liar. He’s smart. Let’s hope he thinks he’s smarter. Smart criminals were the same as smart asses. They loved to crack wise, and the more they “talked,” the easier it was to catch them.

  Tweets: 124

  Following 0

  Followers: 72

  He frowned. 72 followers in how long? And how long until someone thought to call the police?

  “When did your daughter call you, Joe?” Katie was 15, a sophomore. Joe looked at the ground, clearly embarrassed.

  “After. But she said she just saw it and then called.”

  July sighed. “Guess we better head to the bedroom.”

  She’s in the shower. Can’t see her right now.

  I’m already hard! Feel free to Re-Tweet!!

  In her closet now. Nice shoes biatch! LOL!

  {picture attached}

  July paused at the top of the stairs. The picture showed a shoe rack, presumably in the closet, two pairs of shoes in the frame. A pair of black flats and a pair of red heels for those dressier occasions.

  Next time I’ll shut down the electricity. That will be different!

  {Direct Tweet} Seeker@EmmaT Hi! Guess who??

  {Direct Tweet} EmmaT@Seeker Idk. Who are you?? 

  Tweets: 127

  Following: 0

  Followers: 222

  July took a breath and made his way to the bedroom.

  Looks like I might be going viral! LOL! My fans!

  You people are funny.

  Still in the closet. She’s in bed Hot!

  {picture attached}

  Emma Thompson lay on her stomach, wearing a long “Rutgers” t-shirt. The shirt bunched up a little and July could see light pink panties. One of her bare legs was bent at the knee, her foot pointing at the ceiling. Her eyes were closed and what looked like a cell phone was lying against her thigh. There was something intimate about the picture and he felt himself flush with embarrassment.

  Don’t worry guys. This is only a game Feel better? LOL 

  I think she’s sleeping.

  Time to play.

  Tweets: 139

  Following: 0

  Followers: 992

  I took off my pants Made a little noise but she’s still sleeping. Yay!

  Guess where I’m standing now ??

  {picture attached}

  He entered the bedroom and forgot all about clicking on the link to the picture. Later he’d be treated to the sight of Seeker straddling a sleeping Emma Thompson, his black sweat pants pulled down far enough to show a hard cock swinging in the wind, inches above the girl’s head. But that was later. Now he was treated to another visual.

  The first things that drew the eye were the bed’s headboard and surrounding wall. Both were decorated with blood spatter. A dark read smear made an arc across part of the wall, where Seeker must have wiped his hands.

  On the bed, the remains of Emma Thompson rested in a black crimson pool. She was unrecognizable, her face and most of her head little more than a ruin. Her panties, dotted with gore, were still on. Did he put them back on after? Her legs were still pretty and clean, no blood at all. For some reason, that bothered him more than anything else.

  “Jesus.” Something else bothered at him, but he couldn’t place it at the moment. He quickly turned and stepped out of the room.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I know. I never thought I’d see anything like that here.” Joe’s face had gone from pale to ashen and July didn’t blame him. Not one little bit. A miracle neither of them had puked. He glanced back down at the phone. His hands were sweating heavily and the bag had fogged up a little, making it harder to read.

  Oops. Forgot to turn off the flash! She’s still snoozing though!

  Going to move the blanket

  Tweets: 135

  Following: 0

  Followers: 2,021

  “Blanket. So she was under covers when he ‘came out of the closet.’ Joe held the phone up to his face. He could make out the time stamp, barely on the message. “Two hours between the first message and this.”

  “He was here for a long time. How did he know her parents wouldn’t come back?”

  Joe frowned. “Maybe he knew her. Maybe she told him she’d be alone?”

  “Maybe,” but July didn’t believe it. “Or maybe he just didn’t care.”

  Oh Man! She’s naked! T-shirt and muff! Sweeeeeet!

  {picture attached}

  He didn’t have the stomach to look at that picture. Not yet.

  Sigh. Hammer time. Guess she was a light sleeper. Not anymore Lol

  Moved her head. Doesn’t look so bad now.

  {picture attached}

  She feels awesome - and still breathing. Yum!

  That was intense!! I came like a hurricane. Still Hard!

  Hey hey hey hey. It was the DNA!

  Hey hey hey hey That made me this way

  LOL! NO DNA TODAY! (Golashes)

  Guess I better get going.

  July pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to stave off the headache he felt brewing. “Give your friend another call. See what’s going on with finding the parents.” Joe nodded and reached for his radio.

  “There’s something wrong.” July took a mental breath and went back in the room.

  She Tivo’ed “Project Runway” I LOVE that show. Lol

  Doesn’t she look hot in my mask. Check it out.

  {picture}

  This time he did click on the link and was treated to a picture of Emma, shirt pulled up over her breasts, with the comedy mask on her face, or what was left of her face. He raped her. He raped her after he beat her with the hammer.

  Taking her phone. Just in case.

  That’s it. That’s what was wrong. Her phone’s missing.

  Does anyone know if you can send video on twitter . 

  See ya next week!

  {direct tweet} wildman@seeker What time?!

  {direct tweet} scareys@seeker You didn't use the rope. And yes you can upload video!

  {direct tweet} Linalina@seeker You're a sick fuck.

  {direct tweet}

  {direct tweet}

  {direct tweet}

  Tweets: 155

  Following: 0

  Followers: 127,031

  CHAPTER 28

  SAY WHAT YOU MEAN TO SAY

  The other day I was enjoying a drink with my vaginally challenged friend, Pete. Pete is a social democrat who has chosen an alternate lifestyle that does not, technically, require the use of sock puppets. We had just come from a bachelor party after deciding to skip the film "Short Stuffed," a fifty four minute masterpiece starring three vertically challenged pizza delivery persons and a pharmaceutically enhanced, gag challenged working person.

  Anyway, we were dialoging about the eating habits of suburbanly challenged people of color and the idea that food corporations had an ethical duty to behave in a socially responsible manner. Pete suggested that while people would agree, in theory, that prejudice should always be avoided, in reality the concept of exploiting fear about groups of different persons was ingrained in the corporate mindset.

  The waiter person, a calorie friendly cause of the erectionally challenged, had turned on the television above the bar. On the screen for the visually abled, Sarah Palin was dialoguing with Larry King about her new book. Pete looked up at the screen.

  "I hate that fucking bitch.”

  CHAPTER 29

  MISOGYNIST

  Andy choked down another spoonful of the God-awful soup and grimaced. Dini sat at the other end of the table. Andy noted with satisfaction how she kept glancing up nervously, both hopeful and afraid.

  "Jesus, Dini! How do you manage to burn the soup and serve it ice cold?

  Dini stammered. "It's just that you came home late and --"

  Andy belched. "Enough with the whining and excuses. Christ, even the wine can't wash away the awful taste. I mean what the fuck?"
>
  Dini didn't say anything, keeping her eyes on her plate.

  The bitch is learning.

  "Well don't just sit there like a crying Buddha, take this shit away!" She looked at Dini sitting there; stirring that congealed mess with a spoon, and wanted to scream. Today of all days. Dini had to pick today to go and fuck everything up.

  "I told you what a shit day I had at the office. You think I could come home just once to something edible?"

  Andy pushed the soup away, splashing some onto the table cloth. "I put up with all kinds of crap from all kinds of people, and this is what I come home to? Cold burnt soup and cold pot roast? Who do I have to kill to get a decent meal?"

  Dini flinched a bit at the last sentence, but not enough to suit. Worse, she hadn’t moved from her chair.

  "Oh, don't get up sweetheart. I'm sure that the soup has gotten warmer by now. Let's see." Andy took another spoonful, and spit it out, half hitting the bowl, half spraying across the table. "Well I'll be fucked, still cold as a witch's titty. Now how about you get off your goddamned ASS and heat up my goddamned SOUP!' Andy screamed

  Dini jumped, much to Andy's satisfaction, and then she did something that made Andy's night. She accidently knocked her wine glass over. She stared in mute horror as the white linen around her plate turned into a dark, red stain. Stupid bitch!, Andy thought gleefully. Now she's going to get what she's going to get. Up and across the room in a flash, screaming in Dini's face. The world went pleasantly red around the edges.

  Later, Andy stood over the bathroom sink, the hot water running and fogging up the mirror. Dini's short hiccupping gasps floating in from the dining room as she cleaned up the last of the broken china. Andy turned off the water and used a towel to wipe at the mirror. Fixing an errant strand of hair that had fallen across her face, Andy wondered if she was getting her period already. She really loved Dini, but sometimes she drove her crazy.

  CHAPTER 30

  YOU SAY RETAINER, I SAY RESTRAINER

  There were hangovers and there were hangovers. This was definitely a hangover. Jerry couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes and everything remained blessedly dark.

  Scotch doesn't give you a hangover.

  A wave of nausea washed over him and small explosions of pain blossomed behind his eyelids, the familiar post-game fireworks show.

  Right, and pretty girls want a guy with a good sense of humor and money can't buy you happiness.

  That guy -- he struggled to recall his name. He remembered watching him from the doorway, walking down the street, bold as you please, shouting for help. He was the first human Jerry had seen in over a week; not that he’d exactly been scouring the city for company. Since the dead started walking and squawking, he tended to poke his head out less than the proverbial groundhog. Even before “Z-day,” Jerry didn’t pay much attention to anyone who didn't have him on retainer. He was never a people person, but he wasn't J.D. Salinger either. He missed occasionally slinging the shit over drinks, bitching about the Jets or sharing inappropriate comments about the women in the room. When he saw the man – Jon, his name is Jon – walking down the street, he figured ‘What the hell?’ After making sure no undead were tracking the stranger, Jerry had waved him in, and a full bottle of scotch later, here he was.

  Which is where?

  Something didn't feel right. Jerry steeled himself and slowly opened his eyes to a bright, blurry and painful world. He reached over toward the nightstand to find his glasses, but his hands wouldn't move. Fighting off another bout of nausea, he tried again.

  "What...?"

  Something held his arms in place. He tried sitting up. No Go. He went to swing his feet off the bed. Not happening.

  "What...?" It came out as a soft croak, but still felt overloud to his alcohol enhanced hearing.

  "That was some night!"

  Each word hit him like a nail and he moaned in agony. The world went gray for a bit.

  "What happened? My arms..."

  A blurry face swam into view and Jerry felt his glasses being gently slipped on. It still hurt to keep his eyes open, but at least everything was in focus, more or less. Jon smiled down at him and winked.

  "You're obviously a guy who appreciates good scotch!"

  Jerry screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise. "Sshh. Not so loud," he half whispered, half whined. “What's going on? What happened last night?” He cautiously opened his eyes again and was startled to see his face looming so close.

  "Well, here's the thing," Jon whispered. "The thing is you drank a lot of scotch, and a fair amount of Flunitrazepam. Jon closed his eyes and smiled. That's a funny word, "Flunitrazepam” - reminds me of "marzipan."

  Jerry’s tongue felt fuzzy and he could feel it throbbing along with his head. "Flun... Fluinitr…"

  "Flun itra ze pam" Jon repeated eyes open and still smiling. The kids used to call it "roofie." You know the 'date rape' drug?

  Jerry blinked, trying to clear his head.

  "You gave me --"

  "Don't worry." Jon pulled his head away and walked to the other side of the bed. "I didn't rape you," he laughed. "I'm no fag. Hope I haven't disappointed you!"

  Jerry tried unsuccessfully to move his hands. With much effort, he was able to raise his head enough to see that they were strapped to his side, and he was strapped to a table.

  Jon moved to the side of the bed and was fiddled with an IV stand. A bag of clear liquid, with a very slight yellow tint, dangled from the stand, about half full. He gave the bag and gave it a gentle tap.

  “What’s that? What are you doing?” The fog of scotch and roofie was beginning to lift and make room for alarm.

  "I'm increasing the drip. It's mostly saline, to help keep the old blood pressure up. But I added a little something to help with the pain."

  "I'm not in any pain and I don't need any painkillers," Jerry growled. Now let me out of here.

  Jon laughed. "Painkillers? Who said anything about painkillers? This is a little something I picked up on my travels after the world ended. It was called "Poppin' Fresh" by the few that knew about it. It’s a derivative of a drug called Precedex; very hush hush." Jon gave the bag another gentle squeeze before walking away.

  "Hey!" he shouted. "Where are you going? Get me the fuck out of this!"

  "Don't worry," Jon shot back. I’ll be right back. Just going to turn on the cameras and get my stuff."

  Cameras?

  He pulled as hard as he could against his restraints and immediately regretted it. Fire shot up both wrists and for a moment he was sure he'd somehow broken both arms. When he opened his eyes again, he could taste blood on his lips.

  "What the FUCK!"

  Jon walked back into the room carrying a rusty handy man’s tool box.

  "That would be the Poppin' Fresh," he chirped. "As I was saying, Percedex was originally made for people in intensive care. A pain killer's pain killer, if you know what I mean. Eventually, the doctors discovered a fascinating side-effect. It made people more sensitive to electric shock. Can you imagine that? I mean, who the fuck isn't sensitive to electric shocks to begin with, right? I know! But this shit made them sensitiver!" Jon let out a short bark of laughter.

  “It didn't take the CIA long to find enough quacks willing to forget about the Hippocratic Oath and develop a better derivative. That would be Poppin' Fresh here.” He gave the back a quick flick. “It's highly experimental. The conspiracy nuts say it we used on those fuckwads in Guantanamo Bay. You wouldn't believe how many corpses I had to kill to get my hands on this stuff. It’s supposed to increase sensitivity in the nerve receptors, the receptors that communicate pain.

  He leaned in until his face was only inches from Jerry's, still smiling. "So tell me, counselor, does it work?"

  "Listen! Why are you doing this?"

  Jon laughed. Jerry saw him open the tool box. He took out a box cutter and a Swiss army knife, laying them both on a small cart, like the one's the hospitals used to deliver food to patients.


  "Can you believe a bunch of sandniggers were able to take down the Twin Towers and the Pentagon armed only with box cutters? I mean, Jesus Christ, Jerry, can you believe it?

  Jon bent down and Jerry momentarily lost sight of him. His voice floated up from somewhere below the table.

  "I'll tell you what, though," I learned a lesson from 9/11, damned if I didn't." He stood up again, holding a pair of green hospital scrubs out in front of him, giving them the once over. Old, faded stains had left discolored patches and Jerry briefly closed his eyes, not wanting to think about how they got that way.

  "I know," Jon slipped into the scrubs, not bothering to tie them at the back. "Not exactly sanitary. Sorry about that. But with zombies infesting everything from K-Mart to St. Joseph's, sometimes one has to make do with what they have."

  Jerry cried out as he felt a soft hand gently tap his cheek.

  "Jesus, you are really wound up," Jon laughed. "Open your eyes please." Jerry opened his eyes.

  "Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. Lessons learned. If there's one thing I learned from 9/11 Jerry, is that one doesn't need a lot of fancy shmancy stuff to get the job done. That's a lesson I took to heart."

  Jerry watched him pick up the box cutter. "Please, I'll do whatever you want. You don't need to do this," he pleaded.

  "You don't remember me, do you," Jon asked? I thought by now you'd remember. You must be racking your brains out trying to figure out who I am.

  "I never saw you before last night..." But uncertainty began to creep into his thoughts. Jon leaned in, once again eclipsing Jerry's world with his face.