Thread: Scaremonger (Mr Quixotic & Lait)

It was over. If looks could kill, Cole's heart would have ceased beating immediately with the ice-cold stare his touch and final words had brought forth from Aizarah. However, they couldn't, and so the rapist watched his victim exit the Interview room, with a smirk pasted on his face. That she desired revenge, and wished to see him dead, Cole Douglas was in no doubt, and the very concept almost caused him to chuckle aloud. The pathetic slut could wish what she liked, but both knew she wouldn't stand a chance against a real man. Survival of the fittest was the way of the world, and Azairah D'Amici had deserved everything that had occurred for being so fucking weak, but then that was to be expected. She was a woman. Once again, Cole Douglas, with the assistance of his corrupt and ambitious Father, aided and abetted by the moral cowardice of those supposedly heroic and ethical deputies sworn to protect the pubic and uphold the Law, had gotten away scot-free with his crimes. When would it ever stop? The minute she exited the police station, Aizarah D'Amici also exited the Sheriff's list of problems. Her file was marked 'Complete', and placed in a bottom draw the deputies were assigned to real cases with real victims, Brock returned to schmoozing with the media in his attempts to gain support for his upcoming Mayoral nomination, and Cole Douglas, with hero status amongst friends enhanced, continued to hit on girls willing or not. Two weeks after the incident, the raped and beaten woman was but a minor footnote in history. A month passed, and it was if the woman had never existed, and the alleged rape never occurred. Forgotten by everyone. Cared about by no-one. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Except, that was, Kyle Evans. As hard as he tried to push her from his mind, and mostly succeeded on occasion he'd wake up in the dead of night, panting and out of breath, sweat beading on his forehead, legs kicking at the covers, and hands scrambling for a purchase which wasn't there, with her name on his lips. In the darkness of his bedroom, he'd sense a shadowy figure that of a woman, too vague to make out, giving him nothing to focus on except for a denser patch of blackness five feet from the ground which he took to be the soulless, hollow pit of her eyes. Staring directly at him, apportioning blame to Kyle Evan's for not offering help. Why the nightmares, which followed him out of his dream state and always took a minute to fade, would be of Aizarah D'Amici, rather than the young women he'd beaten, stabbed, choked, and sliced to death the one's he'd left laying in a pool of their own body fluids, raspy words, and pleas for mercy being hacked from their lungs along with clumps of black blood, legs and eyes twitching in pain, nails - ripped to the quick - scraping cement, tarmac and wooden floorboards, noses broken, teeth smashed, and skin shredded and ripped as if they'd been attacked by a wild animal he wasn't certain. Possibly because Zai was an innocent victim, whilst the others had been the authors of their own demise, and the application of pain was only enjoyable when deserved? Not only enjoyable but necessary to keep him alive. It had been two months since the last victim, and Kyle Evans was once again on the prowl However not in Eden. As Brock Douglas had said to his son, Don't crap in your own backyard, and the Army veteran had followed that strategy from the very beginning. The metropolis of Rome lay only a short distance inland, and with a with a population ten times the size, offered both the advantages of invisibility, and a greater concentration of suitable prey. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fucking asshole. Twenty-eight year old Mark DuBouis, picked himself off the ground, slapped his hands against his jeans to remove the dust, and spat the words out at the mountain of muscle in front of him. I told you, keep your hands off the girls. Dubious swayed drunkenly from side to side, and almost stumbled to his knees again as the mocha leather jacket he'd removed in the Club hit him in the face, then the back door of the Strip joint slammed slut. Fucking asshole. Mark pulled the jacket away from his vision, and slipped into it as he started at the entrance in contemplation of whether he should attempt to re-enter. However, even in his alcohol and drug-addled state, he knew that wasn't such a good idea. Instead, he kicked dirt with his steel-capped boot, and screamed, FUCKING ASSHOLE, one last time at the top of his voice, and slammed his fist against a wooden signboard next to him. Stupid bitches teasing him all afternoon, rubbing their crotches against his cock, and shoving their tits in his face, taking his money, and he couldn't even touch? Dubois kicked the dirt again. What the hell was he supposed to do now. Go home and tell his wife that he'd just been laid off, and spent his retrenchment on booze, drugs and strippers. No fucking way. He'd find another club, and this time one where he could cop a feel. Make it a whorehouse yep, that's just what he was gonna do, Dubois decided, and that's when he saw her. Maybe he wouldn't need to. Hey honey, where you going? The words were slurred, and Dubois started walking as the woman turned into the lane. He hadn't got a peek at her face, but from behind she looked hot. Maybe it was one of the strippers? Even Candy, the teasing slut who'd screamed for security when he'd grabbed her ass. Hey, bitch, where you going? The alcohol swirled in his brain, mingled with the drugs, and the anger which had been building up inside him erupted. He was aware the woman walking down the lane wasn't Candy but yet it was. It was her, and the bitch had taken his money, and given him nothing for it. Not even a damn handjob. Dubois' pace picked up, and all of a sudden he was sprinting and closing the distance with each step. I asked you a question, whore. Gasping and grunting with exertion, his footsteps pounded the pavement, and he made a desperate lunge. Fingers found purchase on the strangers arm, and gripped a wrist. You ain't going no-where until I get what I fucking paid for. His free arm snaked up, and knuckles cracked against the side of the anonymous women's face as the ex-construction worker, filled with blind rage, and drunken fury, twisted her around, shoved her up against a wood-paled fence, and then dropped his hand between her legs ready to take what which was his to take.