I have to admit, I fucked up again, and this time I ain’t got a leg to stand on. I’m up shit’s creak and the only paddle I got is a damn public defender.
At first I was free, free as a bird. Damn it felt good to step past that razor edged steel gate and walk away from that shit hole. I’d kinda hoped that Momma would come get me. But that was some messed up thinkn’, ‘cause Momma hadn’t visit me the whole time I was locked up. Its possible that deep down inside she knew it was me that put that girl right in the path of the truck tires. I bet she’s feeling a little unsafe now. It kinda makes me giddy thinkn’ she might, you know, be shaken’ in her boots, not knowing if I’ll come for her one day. Maybe make her one of my prey.
As a free man, first thing I did was take the van the state prison provided right into town. I went straight to the bank, emptied my account and got the hell outta dodge. I knew people would be watchn’ my back. But I had too much fun planned to let anyone or anythin’ get in my way. I resisted the urge to find another small town, cause a new person sticks out like a sore thumb in a place full of only a thousand people or so. Instead I found myself a borin’ medium-sized city. Got a little apartment above a store. No neighbours and cinderblock walls meant my place was sound proof, and step one was complete.
Step two was another story. Getn’ myself a job, with a record, was a challenge. But fortunately no one wants a job in a bowln’ alley and I got myself a gig fixn’ the lanes when they break down and such. It was damn near the most perfect job in the universe. Sometimes I’d just sit at the back and watch people play, listen’ to the thunkn’ sounds of the bowln’ balls as they dropped to the hardwood floor, and rolled toward the pins. When they cracked and knocked down those pins it was the most heavenly sound. That’s what got me to thinkn’.
I had my own set of keys given to me by the manager for just such an occasion that I needed to fix things up over night. And wouldn’t you know it, a bunch a lanes got messed up at the end of the shift on that Sunday. So I had ‘till Monday afternoon to play my games.
With a beautifully cold beer in my hand (that I helped myself to from the fridge behind the bar) I sat in the chair in front of the computer score board, very proud of myself. I’d got myself two sweet lookn’ girls, ‘bout seventeen years old I think. Best friends too. They were all tied up and gaged. Awake of course. That was the best part.
I’d placed each of them with the pins at the end of the alley. They were belly down in the gutters with their beautiful faces perched just so they’d be lookn’ down at me. Hot damn it was freakn’ great fun. My prey would squirm and wiggle as I set up with the ball in my hand. Would I strike? Maybe a spare? God help ’em if I got a gutter ball. When the pins went flyin’ they’d bounce off the prey in a very satisfactory way. I’m hard now just recalln’ it.
Before I’d managed to finish my game though, I was scoring one fifty in the seventh frame if you were wondern’, the MoFo police flanked me and ordered me to the ground. Though I’d thought I’d cased the place out, apparently I didn’t figure on new fangled camera that had a straight feed to the owner’s smart phone. There was no fake tears and whistlen’ a sweet tune of I don’t know what I was doin’, like before. Nope, this time they had me good.
The place I’m liven’ now, while I wait for my trial, is a maximum security facility. It’s not a nice place. As it turns out I’m a pretty lookn’ man. So I’m a bit sore at the moment, can’t really sit down so well. But I’m told I’ll be protected, though I don’t feel so protected at the moment. But I’m biding my time. They don’t know the real me yet.
Brookelynn Berry is a dead sexy writer and lover of the finer things in life. And no, she’s not really dead, but she is sexy, and writes some pretty hot stuff. And although she gets around all over, she likes hang out at Twisted Sister. And if you liked this, be sure to check out Frogs n’ Shit, another twisted story by Brookelynn Berry.