She woke up in the trunk of a broken down Chevrolet in the middle of what seemed to be an endless desert.
She had a sprained (but not broken) ankle, a throbbing head wound, and a strange, searing pain in her left elbow. During her 4 captive hours in the trunk she had also soiled herself and now smelled like piss and fear. Her blonde hair, which was usually curled or teased into a comical looking college Barbie-esque hairdo, was now stringy and matted on the side where she had curled herself up in her temporary 4 x 3 prison. She laughed to herself silently, teetering on the edge of insanity. No one would think I’m attractive now, she thought.
That is how the minds of her type of women worked.
The top of the trunk had opened easily, strangely, once she felt the vehicle stop. Yet…no one was there. All she saw was the expanse of dirt and rocks, a few lone cacti trees, and the sun. The blazing, vicious sun. All she did to get herself into this predicament was walk outside. Out of her apartment, down the stairs, towards the car her mother had given her which was never good enough. She had always wanted something bigger; flashier. That was her last thought before she felt the metal on the back of her skull and the hands on the flesh of her arms. She was out so fast she didn’t even have time to be scared, until she woke up in the trunk. She had left her place about 8 a.m.; the sun told her it was now about noon, wherever she was. Her almond eyes became narrow slits in the sunlight; she raised her arm to cover her eyes and winced when her elbow cried in revolt. “Goddamn it!” she yelled, to no one in particular. The sound of her own voice frightened her; she jumped back and pressed against the car, searing the slice of midriff it came into contact with. She yelped and tears stung her eyes; her chest began to swell with self-pity. “WHERE AM I?!” she screamed. “WHERE ARE YOU?” Of course, the “you” she referred to was the kidnapper, or, kidnappers. Who stops their car in the middle of the desert and leaves the captive home free? Her instincts told her “he” was around somewhere, waiting; watching. But the open expanse of desert would not allow for such pleasures. There was nowhere to hide. She jumped back, delicately, being mindful of her ankle. She was tired of adding to the injuries already inflicted upon her. She bent and looked into and under the car; under the hood. She inhaled sharply. The entire engine of the vehicle was gone. She touched her fingers to her lips. She was scared. * * * * * * * * I watched the blonde broad for 3 weeks before Greg and I snatched her. She did a lot of pretty boring, normal shit; bars with friends, couple-type shit with her wannabe model boyfriend; shopping. The thing I got to dislike about this particular broad was her attitude, about everything in general. She walked around like she owned the places she went; huge, bug-eyed sunglasses on her thin, horse-ish face, hair all poufed up, glittery lipgloss all over the place; her sausage-esque legs poured into stretchy jeans made by designer labels she bought from discount stores. Greg thought she was hot shit, but Greg also thinks Starbucks doesn’t burn their roast. Me, I grew to hate her. In 3 weeks I never, not once, saw her do anything of merit. Everything she did revolved around herself. She was the personification of the MTV generation; mindless, spineless, ego-driven. A consumer, not a producer. She went to community college and “worked” in human resources. I could see her fat ass sitting at a desk all day running background checks and judging people to make enough money to pay the nerds in her classes to test for her. It fit.
The only person she seemed to acquiesce to was her harpy mother. Her father almost came off as a non-entity; I never heard or saw him speak unless he was alone. Whenever Blondie went home to visit, he would putter out to the garage and listen to the radio, muttering to himself. I felt sorry for the guy. I almost feel like I did him a favor by making Blondie disappear. Blondie’s mother was repulsive. But she was paying me to do what I do, so my thoughts on her end there. Greg thought her overweight, square jawed mother was hot. I told you, Greg has no taste. * * * * * * * * * The sun had gone from hot to scalding in the hour since she had discovered the vehicle had been gutted. A hundred “fucks” had dropped from her lips and her head had begun to hurt even more under the pressure of the increased heat. She had moved inside the car to shield her from the sun; there was a warm breeze that would blow through the windows every now and again which would alleviate the stifling heat for a second or two, giving her an inhaled respite that didn’t taste like scorched pennies or battery acid.
She remembered the hottest part of the day ended around 2 p.m.; which meant after another hour or two it would start to cool down and she could, perhaps, fall asleep. All she wanted to do was sleep again. Her last attempt left her soaked in sweat against the leather interior of the car. She needed to get back in the trunk-fuck the fact that it smelled like piss-but it was simply too hot right now. This newly remembered fact gave her a fresh sense of hope and pleasure. She felt if she could just get back to sleep again, she would wake up somewhere else… * * * * * * * * * * It was pretty easy to pinch her; she left at about the same time for work every morning, and most of her neighbors were pampered housewife types who slept in ‘til noon. I figured no one would notice her absence in the neighborhood anyway. What is one less blonde on a block of 20? Her mom asked us to do it quickly and quietly-grab her, shoot her, pretend to rob her and go. Insurance money-her mother had a not-so-quiet gambling debt she needed to pay off and another little secret: a girlfriend. “My daughter has been nothing but a nuisance since her birth,” she told us. “I have no personal problem with my lifestyle…I’d shout it from the rooftops if I felt the need to, but if I’m going to divorce my husband, I want all ties with him destroyed. If our daughter is murdered in a freak, horrible act of crime, it lends plausibility to the fact I simply cannot bear to live with Harold anymore. He reminds me too much of “her”. I can escape quietly, with pity, and go wherever I want. I can finally live for myself. Certainly, with the way my daughter has turned out, no one will miss her. She has the emotional depth of a cream puff.”
The conversation actually had me feeling sorry for Blondie before I started tailing her.
Her mother gave me two grand in cash, all she had after her last loan shark payment, with a promise of 10% of the insurance settlement, which was somewhere around the $25K mark. Not bad for four weeks of work, in my opinion. Greg would only be needed minimally-his fee would barely cut into my profit, and besides…he did this shit for fun. I’d toss him a couple of comatose women every now and again and he was indebted to me for life. Greg: he of the temple of mediocrity.
And me, you ask? Why do I do this shit? Depends. Beats working in some stuffy office, kissin’ ass to a buncha suits, I think. Also beats slaving away in some restaurant kitchen, or some slick retail store, or waiting around to get my dick sucked on a college campus somewhere. It ain’t the money, although I do okay; most kidnap and hit-for-hire assholes do shit like this for much, much less. I suppose, in my own way, it’s fulfilling. Retribution-that’s the business I’m in. Every person I’ve ever killed has deserved it-deserved death and much, much worse. Blondie was the only one I felt sorry for, until I tailed her. Once I saw who she really was-a spoiled, selfish husk of a human in her oversized sunglasses and holier-than-thou attitude, I knew she belonged with the others. Let her mother get her money-she can eat pussy and gamble the rest of her pathetic life away in some beach community where I hope she’ll catch pneumonia and die early. Let her poor, rusted out shell of a father get some cash, too-maybe he can find a woman who won’t find it necessary to waste his life along with hers. And let me stay in the shadows, playing the punisher, gathering sins. * * * * * * * * * * The twilight had begun to fall and the exhausting, endless heat gave way to indications the night would be quite the opposite. She looked at her dirt covered, urine stained tie-dye jeans and shook her head. What an outfit to die in. She thought of her boyfriend. They hadn’t made plans to see each other tonight, which meant he probably wasn’t even aware of her absence…although they did email each other all throughout the day with things like pictures of dogs and extra “LOLs” and “<3’s”. How silly it all was, in retrospect. They were supposed to go on a cruise next month-she had bought a new, ruffly bikini for it. “I HATE YOU!” she screamed, to no one. Tears fell, heavy and hot, as she started to sob. “Why is this happening to me?!” She thought of her best friends; they were probably out drinking without her right now. God, how she would kill for a drink. She had found a half empty water bottle under the driver’s side front seat and was sipping it in intervals, but a cocktail with extra ice would both cool her throat and numb the pain in her elbow. She gathered it was about 6 p.m. now. She should be home, watching TV. What the fuck did she ever do to deserve this? What COULD someone do to deserve being stuck in a wasteland like this desert, with no way out? With a half-worthless ankle, a throbbing, cracked elbow, and a head prone to dizziness and confusion? Fresh tears spring up again. She shook them away. She needed to conserve water. * * * * * * * * * * After Greg and I threw her in the back of the trunk, I dropped him off a few blocks from his place and threw him a couple hundred bucks. “Aren’t you going to need help getting rid of the body?” he asked, eyebrows knotted. I shook my head. “This one’s special. I’m taking her somewhere she’ll never be found.” Greg shook his head. “You won’t get paid for a while doing that shit,” he said, but I didn’t care. The day before, Blondie had gotten a phone call from her mother. “Sorry, Mom, I can’t,” she said, her voice syrupy with fake regret. “I’m sorry Dad’s not feeling well, but I can’t miss this test today-it’s important. Can I come up tomorrow instead? It’s not like he’s going to die or anything.” I closed my eyes. Shortly thereafter, I followed her to a hair salon and a discount department store. There was no test that day. There was nothing but Blondie being herself. I left at sunset and drove to her parent’s home. Her father was in the living room, watching television, wrapped in a blanket, frail and washed out. At first I thought he was shivering, perhaps with sickness, but when I used my binoculars, I realized he was crying. On the table in the next room, there was a sliced cake, sad and beginning to dry. It was the poor fucker’s birthday. I had never seen anyone look so…alone
I had driven away that night knowing Blondie and her pathetic mother were examples of the worst kind of human. Not my kind, the kind that repossesses life from those not fit to breathe it; oh no, their kind was worse: they exemplified the top tier of absolute selfishness. Blondie’s mother was soulless; she allowed her own needs to overwhelm both her husband and her child, aiding in her husband becoming the shadow of a man and her child becoming a sentinel set on her own pleasure and nothing else. My hands gripped the steering wheel and my heart ached for a man I didn’t even know. “Why’d you let them get to you?” I hissed, sad and angry and confused. “Why’d you let them turn you into this…?” I knew then that Blondie’s mother would never get her money. I’d take Blondie out into the middle of the desert and let her rot, let her mother sit around waiting for insurance adjusters to give her what she “needed” to escape the life she made for herself, all the while her heart screaming for her lover, and her husband, the man she promised to love and take care of until death do them part wasting away to dust, like the sediment of the desert their daughter would die in, alone. I knew THAT is what I wanted to do.
I KNEW THAT IS WHAT THEY DESERVED. * * * * * * * * * * The blazing sun of the morning woke her up, burning her eyes and throat with the acrid desert air. She choked, nauseated by the scent of urine on her clothes, and coughed up blood into her once manicured hands. She whimpered in pain. The sun seemed to laugh at her, mocking her discomfort. The air smelled like death.