I Guess You’ll Do …
By Mick Rose
Armed with a 500 mm lens, a black bandanna draped across my face, I stalked my prey across the beach at isolated Coltons Point.
Corona virus woes aside, not a bad April evening on the Maryland coast. Fifty-nine degrees. Scattered scuttling clouds. Tide rolling in. Sunset in thirty minutes. And suddenly to my right—
A lone beach bunny.
“Hey,” she shouted, her tinny high-pitched voice as welcome, warm, and grating as a shitty drive-thru speaker. “What are you shooting?”
Silicone boobs billowed from an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini. Judging by her fake tan? She probably bought the scraps for spring break down in Florida. “At this moment? Nothing. You just scared the birds away.” At least she didn’t have a dog.
“Ooops, sorry,” she said, oozing insincerity.
She parked her pert ass on a boulder. Shit. Forget about stalking shore birds. The mixed flock had regathered a hundred yards south and the sun was slipping fast.
“I walk this beach every evening. You’re the first guy I’ve seen in months.”
I detached my long lens, capped the camera; packed the glass away. “I live over in Delaware, but the beaches there are closed courtesy of the governor.”
Pink lips sneered. “My boyfriend’s a doctor. Wants to be a hero. Volunteered to work in NYC when this damn virus hit. Hasn’t been home since.”
I nodded without sympathy. “I was in New York mid-March covering the Big East basketball tourney before they cancelled play. Got the hell out of Dodge and back to Delaware. But not fast enough. I tested positive for Corona two days later,” I lied. “Felt sick about five days, spent two weeks in quarantine. Eventually got cleared by the health department.”
Her plucked eyebrows instantly arched. “I have asthma,” she whined. “So I’ve had to isolate.” She tapped her glittered nails. “Why wear a bandanna if you’ve already had the virus?”
“A lot of people are freaked out. Seems the sensitive thing to do when I’m out in public.”
“How old are you? Like thirty-eight or something?”
Intent once again on getting the hell out of Dodge, I shrugged and stowed the camera. Reading my body language she untied her top.
“I don’t have daddy issues. And you’re not my type. But I guess you’ll do.”
Without inhibition she peeled her polka-dot bottom. “Take me from behind,” she ordered. “No need to take your clothes off. But feel free to pull my hair.”
Dropping to my knees, I delved a backpack pocket. Not into pulling hair, I snagged a pair of rubbers. Slipped them on my hands—
Wrapped a shiny, barbed garrote deftly round her neck, relishing the feel of highly-lacquered cherry hardwood handles.
Ninety days without a kill and a night of necrophilia? Yeah, I guess she’d do.
Crime author Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. Though his crime fiction can loom dark, and not for the faint-of-heart, he typically tells tall tales involving sexual humor (which sometimes prove explicit).
His stories have kindly found good homes in half a dozen online magazines, including Yellow Mama Webzine, England’s Close To The Bone, and Horror Sleaze Trash.
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