Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
The man slumped in the chair, his eyes rolling back.
“Yeah… when I first got in town, I had to verify all of this to be a hundred percent sure. As sure as shit stinks, I don’t wanna execute anybody who doesn’t deserve it.” He shrugged. “You had a pair of blood-stained panties stashed in there with the pictures, you sick fuck. Kept a little memento. I also found pics of other girls in that box and now, I’ve got those, too. I will be investigatin’ cases of any missing ladies that match up against ’em, so when this is all said and done, I can send those families a nice letter, too. Let me tell ya what’s going on inside of your body, cowboy. Twenty micrograms per kilogram of ricin are in your system. Flowin’ like piss in a sewer.
“You’ll be dead ’tween,” he looked at his watch, “thirty-six and seventy-two hours. I’m leanin’ toward the fortyish mark for the likes of you. No methods are available for the detection of ricin in biological fluids, and there’s no fuckin’ doctor who’s gonna waste time diggin’ around for the cause of your death ’cause you have no money, your insurance sucks, and you have a history of heart disease and piss poor eatin’ habits. Do you know how rare ricin deaths are? The documented ones? Less than five in this country. That’s because it’s so hard to trace but trust and believe, it’s one of the most perfect ways to take a motherfucker out. Now…” He took a deep breath. “We gotta do somethin’ ’bout all that coughin’.”
He swung his arm back and hit the fucker’s neck in a hard chopping motion. WHOP! The man began to cough violently, then slumped down to the floor in a heap, his chair falling over in the process.
“See, your lungs are fillin’ with fluid, man. You’re drowning. Gotta quiet you down. That’s where this little cocktail comes into play.” He reached into his kit and pulled out a needle, preloaded with Nurx. “This is an insomnia medication. Funny how your respiratory system is shuttin’ down right now, just like what happened with that gal when you strangled her.”
He tapped the needle, dropped down on one knee, then plunged it into the tender back of his ear.
“You got to be a mean son of a bitch to be able to look somebody that innocent in the eye as you choke ’em out. A child. A mere seventeen years old. It takes a lot of strength and passion to strangle someone, right? Trust me, I know.” He winked at him. “I’ve given you five times the needed amount.” He placed the drained needle back into his kit bag. “It’ll make sure you don’t cough, scream, or move another fuckin’ muscle.
“I’ve mixed it with a few other things, too. I call it the insurance mélange. You’ll look sound asleep.” He patted his back. “So now what, huh? I’ve got that planned out, too. Don’t you worry. I’m gonna haul your big ass upstairs,” He got back to his feet and pointed to the staircase. “Put ya in your boxers and tank top like you wear every night, turn on the TV, and tuck ya in bed so when your wife is done with her shift, you’ll look like ya always do. Asleep. By the time she realizes you ain’t movin’ or changed positions, your heart and liver will be in such a state of failure, nothin’ will change the trajectory of your demise. No surgeries. No medications. No prayers.”
He began to hum Madonna’s song, ‘Just Like a Prayer’. “Poor Amelia…” He shook his head back and forth. “She deserved a hell of a lot better than this. She was excited about attending NKU and becoming a chemist. You ruined that for her ’cause you’re a fuckin’ freak! A gotdamn demon! IT SHOULDA BEEN YOU HANGIN’ FROM A RAFTER!!!” Wild with rage, he took several deep breaths to regain his composure. “Well, that wasn’t very nice of me, now was it? Oh, what’s that? You think I’m sick, too?” He pointed to himself, then laughed. The man was face down in his own vomit. “Well, you’re right ’bout that. Only thing is, I have self-control. And purpose. I speak for the silent. There’s somethin’ scarier than the Sandman though, don’t you think?”
Slipping his arms under the bastard’s armpits, he dragged him up the steps, taking a few breaks in between. Once he got him to his bedroom, he was covered in sweat, but his adrenaline kept his energy levels high. He did just as he said he would. Posed him just so, changed his clothes, cleaned up his face with a warm washcloth, and pulled the covers over him. Then, he removed the tiny hidden camera he’d placed on the vanity many months ago when he’d come to visit his sick Aunt Angel, before she died, and put it in his pocket.