WRITTEN AND OWNED BY KRISTEN REID // TRIGGER WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF ASSAULT AND RAPE, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, FOUL LANGUAGE, AND MURDER
Where was I the day of March twenty-first of 1968? I was at the farm. I call it a farm, yet the only thing that makes it a farm anymore is the hogs on the property. Ugly things. Did you know that they will eat human flesh? Humans! Eaten by pigs. That's a scary thought, isn't it? It's scary because its abnormal. A pig shouldn't be eating such macabre meals. Pigs are friendly, little farm animals with pink noses and corkscrew tales—they aren't ravenous, sharp-toothed monsters to fear. And yet, they will consume a human without thinking anything of it. It's strange how we feel about the “dangerous” things in our world and automatically fear them in a way that is engrained and systemic to a fault, making people afraid of snakes without really considering them first. A fear of spiders is another one. It’s because they fall into the category of presumed creepiness, danger, and deviltry that we have been trained to identify as evil. Pigs? Who’s afraid of pigs? I think that's why the truth of the matter is so unnerving and frightening to people—it's the deviltry that hides behind trustworthy, unassuming things that makes us do a double-take—makes us reconsider reality. I like pigs.
But to answer that question... I was on the farm. I sit here now yearning for its quiet simplicity. I see the coffee table spilling over with empty glasses I had no inclination to carry to the sink and that damned spot on the floor where—well, no matter about its origin. It's annoyingly stained forever. That evening, I felt like Lady Macbeth trying to wipe it clean with a dishrag as if the stain would come out with cleaning products. I was always so careful, but aren't we all always so careful until the fleeting moment when we are not, thus shattering our sense of control?
How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm?
After they've seen Paree'?
How ya gonna keep ‘em away–
What? Don’t like Judy Garland? Shame. Garland, now that was that one’s last name, wasn’t it? It’s hard trying to remember all of them. Don’t look at me like that. Can you remember every person’s name you’ve come into contact with? Why do you think my relationship with him, and the others would make me any more cognizant of their names? I remember Dales, Heath, Peterson, and, ugh, shoot, Rickets. Yeah, I remember them. Don’t ask me why them, specifically, because I don’t know. The human brain likes to latch onto some things and throw other things into the wind.
I remember the news talking about Garland. Did I hear correctly that his mother had to come in to identify his body because there was little left of his face to tell who the hell he was? I think that was a little dramatic. See, I could still tell who he was after I finished.
He looked shitty enough when I first met him. I could tell he was balding badly underneath his stained, green ball cap with a slowly fading logo of some high school sports team I didn’t recognize. You know how you have truckers, and then you have the stereotypical truckers that make you conjure up images of cigarettes, booze, and women you have to pay for just to get a bit of attention? This one met the stereotyping, and as he stood there, I focused on his off-white t-shirt that carried some drippings from a meal he had had either earlier that morning or that had been engraved into the cloth from years prior.
“Well?” he asked with a sly grin forming on his fat lips. He wanted my answer to his question. You know the kind of question. I shot my eyes back and forth between him and his truck, wondering if it was even worth it to play the part of the actress I had become over the years.
“I ain’t a lot lizard, man.” I fumbled with the knife in my back jean pocket to ensure it was still secured in place if I needed it. I told him that I just needed a ride to the nearest town or the next truck stop.
“You on the run?” he asked, narrowing his bloodshot eyes at me. “You’re far too pretty to be homeless.”
“What, only ugly sons of bitches like you are supposed to be homeless?” I asked as I walked over to the truck and threw my travel bag over one shoulder. I heard the heavy crunch of his boots trailing me on the gravel parking lot as I climbed into the cabin, double-checking my knife again.
The trucker, uh, Garland, right? Yeah, Garland. He fumbled with the radio dials until he landed on a station he was satisfied with—some rock station that annoyingly cut in between static over and over—and then he started up the truck, shooting me a smug look as if I should have been impressed with the simple act of turning a key in the ignition of a vehicle. It was always in the moments leading up to the final act that I felt nausea rise in me, but I reminded myself of the sweet reward I would get if I made it through and to be patient.
“You got a name, Kitten?” the trucker asked, sliding his eyes over to me briefly before focusing on the long stretch of road that was surrounded on either side by dense forest. Secluded.
I told him my name was Heather, but Heather isn’t really my name. My name is Lottie Collins, but I know to never give someone on the road your real name nor surprise them with a name from the late 19th century to make them start wondering about me. It was nice to keep changing my name. I liked pretending I was someone new each time with a new backstory... not the backstory I was stuck with nor the life I was stuck with.
I always know when to wait for the right moment in these situations. It’s usually brought on by the groping of my thighs or a lude comment or promise thrown my way of what the back of a trucker’s cabin could entail if I wanted cash. Usually, the ones that look like Garland are the ones that are simply looking for a piece of tail to appease the long hours and days on the road. It’s the innocent-looking ones that you must keep one eye focused on as you sit in the passenger seat. Like the pigs on the farm, right? Truckers with pink noses and corkscrew tails hiding as something... more. This trucker, uh, Garland, however, was a bit of both. Greasy bastard number thirty-two had been on my radar for a few weeks now. You can never know which one, for sure, is the rapist or the murderer... they all could be with the right motivation. I was never lax in motivation.
“Heather, mmm,” he mused aloud, cutting his eyes over to me and breathing out heavily. “What you hoppin' trucks for, Kitten, if you ain’t wanting cash from me?”
“We all got our screwed-up lives. Maybe I just need a fresh start, Joe Bob,” I answered with a sigh, realizing I hadn’t asked his name, but after these long years of the same game every day, I stopped remembering the names, you see. So, thank you for reminding me which one this one was—this one was one of my finest moments.
“Well, I ain’t a damned taxi service, bitch." He reached over and pawed my breast, and I felt the instinct to slap him outright but refrained from doing so. I allowed him to feel safe. It was always more enjoyable when they thought they had the upper hand. “But seeing that I’m a taxi service for you, I expect you to pay up for it.”
"Can't a woman just sit in a fucking truck and not have to worry about a bastard POS feeling her up?" I snarled and gripped one of his arms, twisting it completely backwards with ease, bones cracking loudly as Garland’s screams filled the cabin. I slid my gaze over to him, watching him moan and twist in agony as he struggled to keep the truck on the road, so I told him to pull off to the side.
He hesitated at first, shooting his frantic gaze to me and then back at the road, so I sighed again, growing bored with the lack of fighting on his part. I pulled out the knife from my back pocket and slammed it to the hilt in his arm, wrenching out another scream from his throat. He finally nodded and pulled over, whimpers coming out of him like a new language as the truck finally came to a stop on the side of the road. I can be quite convincing.
I released him before I shoved him forcefully back into his seat, pinning him there with my hold around his neck as he struggled against me. Oh, I love the look on their faces when they realize I am something very, very wrong.
I ripped the knife out of his arm and licked it clean before waving it in front of his face. I said, “Now, did I hear right that you kept a few women confined in your truck for a few days, abusing them to no end and then finally dumping their bodies? I heard some of the lot lizards talking about it, and I see that ugly cap on your fat head, and I realized it’s you, huh, Joe Bob?”
He shook his head vehemently, and I laughed. They always like to deny. I like to taunt.
“Oh, well, if that’s the case,” I said as I let him go and brushed off nonexistent dust from his shoulders. “Go on, I’ll let you go.” I gave him a quick smile as he assessed me for a moment and then slung open the cabin door to flee. I let him. “Run, run, as fast as you can!”
Joe Bob, uh, Garland, was rounding the truck with heavy breaths as his weight pulled him down with each step, which in turn, made his runs more like gentle jogs. I counted to five, letting him feel like he had a chance to escape, and then took off out of the truck. In the blink of an eye, I was standing a few feet in front of him, crossing my arms and smiling. The shock of horror on his face was something I always craved when I was hunting—the same fear that they summoned from innocents in turn plastered on their grimy faces. “Oooh, not fast enough, though. Sorry Jojo Bobo.”
“What the hell are you? What–” he moaned in pain, backing up step-by-step, clutching his bleeding arm. My eyes narrowed in on the blood, and I licked my lips.
“I'm just a kitten..." I grabbed him by the throat then and pushed him up against the side of the trailer, his legs dangling from the ground as he sputtered and kicked. "Did you rape those women, Joey Bobby?” I gave him a soft smile as he tried to fight against me but to no avail.
“No. No, I didn’t!”
Blatant liars... the most annoying to deal with, am I right? At least I’m being honest with y’all. I reached up with my free hand and jabbed my finger into his eye socket, another scream filling the air.
“Tell meeee. You better tell meeee,” I sing-songed as I pulled my finger out and sucked on the blood covering it. My stomach immediately ached hard for more blood, so much so that my knees nearly gave out, but I was able to breathe out steadily to keep myself focused. Oh, don’t look so shocked. This can’t be the worst you’ve ever heard in an interrogation room. Please.
So, Garland whimpered in horror, but he finally croaked out, “They were lot lizards. Nothing. No one was gonna miss them. They were just ass for a few dollars, okay? That’s what they were there for.”
“Women aren’t there for you to rape,” I screeched, leaning in close to his face and breathing in his fear. It was like honey and vanilla to me, and I took another heady breath as I eyed him. “You didn’t pay them—you kidnapped them, and you even killed some of them. Am I remembering that correctly? Sum it up for me, Bobs."
“They were nothing to no one. No one was gonna even know they were gone.”
“I bet no one’s gonna know you’re gone, either, right? I’ll guess we’ll find out.”
I sunk my teeth into his neck and ripped the flesh there, drinking in his blood and cringing at the faint hint of cigarettes hiding in the thick, metallic tang of him. I hate drinking from smokers. You get it. I mean, don’t y’all hate eating at a diner with a smoker right over in the next booth? It ruins your meal, does it not? Yeah, smokers are the worst meals because all that garbage seasons their blood. Anyway, Garland quickly stilled in my grip as I pulled the last little bits of his blood in, savoring it like life and feeling my bones perk up. It had been too long since I last indulged. After, I tore him up really good. I mean, I don’t have to get into details, do I? You saw his body... well, what was left of it anyway. I dropped his body somewhere in those woods, though you sneaky little treasure hunters found him easily enough.
I hopped up into his truck again and drove to the next truck stop. I was pretty proud of my skills as a truck driver in my own right at that point. I learned how to drive them over time, of course, with each encounter. The first killing had me like a child in her daddy’s truck, but now I'm a pro. You’ll get a kick out of this—Norma Tanega’s "You're Dead" came over the radio as I departed. The universe and its dark humor. I still remember the smell of stale coffee wafting in the air as the crappy air conditioner blew the essence of it around in the musty cabin. I noted coins peppering the floorboards and a few cigarette butts added into the mix. Always the same, it seemed. Over the years, the trucks and truckers started to mesh and meld into one.
So, that was my routine way of living, officers. Easy, right? Aside from having to hunker down during the day in the cabin to avoid the rays of the sun, I had it fairly good. Do you realize how many murders occur around the interstate from truckers? Sure, blame it all on me, but I’m just a one-woman show. I like this... appetite... for one reason—I enjoy eating greasy bastards that think just because a woman works for money, they get to be abused and treated like the garbage shifting around in the floorboards of semis. Essentially, I’m doing your job—taking out the trash in the way it was intended. Let’s see... I’ve been doing this for... eh, Garland was in ’67, right? So, a little over twelve years, though I’ve been around since 1870, and I’m still young and beautiful, huh? That’s immortality, darlings.
I settled down just a few weeks ago on that farm you found me at. I stole it, of course. And how do you think I stole it? I got bored of the chase with the semis... I just wanted to sit around all day and do nothing—live out the rest of forever as little more than a ghost. I loved that farm because of the pigs. Whenever I was finished with someone, after I’d drained them dry, I had the pigs there to eat the corpses and get rid of the bodies like living trash cans. Ha, oh, you think you just brought me in for Garland and the others? Go take your happy little treasure hunting skills back over to the Danson Farm. See if you can piece together all the dozens upon dozens of bodies from the scattered bones lying around... play the part of an archeologist and create a past existence like those dinosaurs in museums.
How ya gonna keep ‘em away down on the farm?
After they've seen Paree'?
Okay, I know, I know. I'll get the death penalty. How's that, though? A vampire with the death penalty. Even the long arm of the law can't really touch something that already got the “death penalty” long ago. I am death itself. Can you kill death not once but twice? We shall see. I'll get a last meal, won't I? Do you know what I'll ask for?
Ice cream.
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