June 22, 1996

It’s a dark and stormy night, and I’m sitting in my car waiting for some stupid douche bags to get murdered.

I love thunderstorms. Ever since I was a kid, thunderstorms would put me right to sleep. There’s just something soothing about them.

Outside, rain pummels the roof of my car. The tinny rhythm hypnotizes me.
I’m getting sleepy.

Sleepy.

The sudden sound of running feet, slapping against the pavement breaks my trance. I bolt awake and sit up straight. If it wasn’t for the momentary lull in the storm, I would have missed them completely.

Looking through the distortion of the rain washed windshield, I watch as three guys race up to the intersection and hand a left on the cross street.

I check my watch.
11:39pm.

Starting my car, I put it into gear and chase after them. At the stop sign I catch sight of them as they dart up to a porch several houses down and on the left side of the street.

Parking the car, I kill the ignition. I look around for any neighborhood busybodies.
The weather is keeping everyone indoors.
Good.

Eager to get this show on the road, I do an extensive equipment check.

Loaded Webley Mark VI revolver. Check.
Extra bullets. Check.

Good to go.

* * * * *

For all I know, these guys are on their way to a nerd fest in their buddy’s basement. This could all be a complete waste of my time.
However, my gut says that I’m right.
And that is unfortunate for them.

I still don’t know how I feel about this plan. I’ve been tracking these things for far too long to let something like my conscience get in the way.

Securing my weapon back in the shoulder holster, I get out of the car. At that exact moment the sky splits with lightning. A monsoon downpour engulfs the world around me. I can’t see shit beyond a few meters.

The fat raindrops sting the bare skin of my face and hands. It feels like being pummeled a thousand pixie fists.

I run for it. I have no idea why. I’m already drenched.

When I reach the corner I slow down. I can’t make out the house through this curtain of water, but I remember the hedgerow that marks the edge of the driveway.

It occurs to me that maybe I should be running to avoid looking suspicious. Walking through a thunderstorm tends to make you stick out.

An explosion right above my head rattles my teeth. Lightning turns the world white and the thunder leaves my eardrums ringing.

Jesus Christ!

I run like hell.

The hedgerow looms out of the blinding rain suddenly and I take a sharp turn into the driveway. My sneaker slips on the wet asphalt but I manage to keep my balance.

Scanning the house to make sure no one is looking out of the windows I take note of the address. A tarnished brass number seven is screwed onto a chipped and flaking diamond shaped particle board plaque.

The driveway leads between into a narrow gap between the canyon like walls of this house and that of the neighbors. In the dark, it’s almost claustrophobic. They really built these old war era houses close together. There’s barely enough room to park a big-wheel between the houses, let alone a car.

At the end of the driveway, I can make out the shape of a detached garage.

I reach the back of the house and cautiously peer around the corner.

My heart is pounding.
I’m having second thoughts.
I know I am out of my league on this one. But I refuse to let the fear conquer me. With a grudging resolve, I swallow my anxiety like a piece of burnt gristle.

The yard is small. It’s segregated from the neighbors by a messy wall of high cedars. There’s a short, waist-high frost fence running from the garage to a gate (where I’m standing) attached to the corner of the house.

My eyes are locked on the backdoor located at the top of a short set of steps leading up to a stubby wooden porch. Light spills out from the inset window.
I reach for the gate and then push it open. The rickety metal frame squeaks and I stop.

Shit.

Realistically there is no way anyone can hear the gate from inside. But I don’t want to take any chances.

I push the gate again. Slowly, cautiously.

Slipping through, I make sure to close it very gently.

As soon as the latch catches, I dash to the side of the porch and crouch into its shadow.

Then something occurs to me.
I forgot to check for dogs.

I anxiously scan the yard and happily find it empty of dogs. Besides being dangerous, they are extremely noisy.

That was sloppy.
I definitely won’t be making that mistake again.

The rain is showing no signs of giving up. Not even a little. It’s pouring down my face and into my eyes and mouth.
Very annoying.
I threaten the sky with a stern look.
Raindrops poke me in the eyes and I squint in defeat.

The light coming from the window dims as someone moves in front of it. I shrink deeper into the shadows. My hand instinctively searches for my gun. If the door opens, I am going to have to be fast. Faster than I’ve ever been before.

That scares the hell out of me because I know what I’m dealing with here and I know I’m nowhere near fast enough.

A muffled laugh.
Then the person moves off.

I let out the breath I’m holding and slump back against the wall.

The relief is only temporary as the corrosive second thoughts return with a vengeance.

Reflexively I reach for my cigarettes. They’re ruined. The rain has seeped into every cranny.
Not that I can actually smoke in this downpour, but it still pisses me off.

Now the wait is going to me even more miserable.

* * * * *

Waiting sucks.
I’m not very good at it even at the best of times.

They say patience is a virtue, which makes sense, because I suck at all the virtues.

I check my watch again.
It’s only been about five minutes-

The scream startles me and I jump to my feet. It’s long and loud and definitely male.

A second scream erupts from somewhere else in the house and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m half way up the steps.

My brain is screaming at me to stop.

My conscience is urging me on.

They’re dying! My conscience shouts.

I fucking know that!

We knew that before. We didn’t stop them when we had the chance, responds my now calm and cool brain.

He’s right about that.

But we can still save them, my conscience says, bolstering my stoicism.

He’s right, too.

We go in there now and we’re as good as dead.

Compelling argument.

I concede to my brain’s wisdom.

Silencing any further debate from my conscience, I retreat back down the steps-

Someone slams into the door.

Before I realize it, I’m staring at the silhouette of a head, straight down the barrel of my revolver.

“No! Please, God!” cries the poor bastard.

He blubbers something else but I can’t make it out.

His head slams against the window, cracking it and making the entire door shudder on its hinges.

The body drops away and everything is quiet. Only the unrelenting thunderstorm remains.

I’m frozen to the steps. I’ve already decided to run for my life, so why am I still here?
Again the notion that I can still save them rears its suicidal head.
No. It’s too late now.

My stomach is afire with razor-winged butterflies.

Sacrifice the few for the good of the many. That was the plan right from the start. So what’s changed?

My pragmatic brain understands the mathematics. All my conscience wants to do is point the finger.

I really don’t need this right now.
I can’t afford to go soft.

Stepping down, I move back to the wall.

They’ve just made their kills. I need to give them time to eat.
Then they’ll be vulnerable.

* * * * *

After checking the gun for the fifth time, I’m satisfied that it is indeed loaded. Taking several quick breaths to steady my nerves, I take the steps one at a time.
My pace is measured.
No rush.

Hopefully I’ve given them enough time.

I look in the window. A gauzy curtain makes it difficult to see inside. The uneven concentric circles of cracked glass make it even harder. Still, I can tell that this door leads into an empty kitchen.

I hear music.
Some boy-band crap.

At least that noise will help cover my ingress.

I try the door knowing full well that it’s going to be locked.
It opens.

The door bumps something.

A glass bottle rolls across the beige linoleum and hits something with an audible ping.

My stomach drops and I cringe as I listen for any sign that I’ve been discovered.

All I hear is that crap music and-

Sex?

They’re watching porn? No. Not porn. Those sounds are the real deal.

I know it’s inappropriate, but I’m getting a boner.

I close the door behind me and take a step towards the sound. An open doorway leads out of the kitchen and into what looks to be the living room.

The beer bottle I hit is resting up against a chair leg.

My feet are completely waterlogged. Each step squishes rain water out of the two small rivet holes in the sides of my Converse All-Stars.

Ahhh, that’s what those holes are for.

I snap my head back up. I need to stop getting distracted.

As slowly and quietly as I can, I peek through the doorway.

What the fu-

I knew what to expect tonight. I figured that what I would find would be ugly. Hell, I even expected hillbilly ugly. But this is clearly not a product of your typical Arkansas gene pool.

It’s difficult to tell if they are predominantly snake, with human features, or the other way around. But I already figured this much based on the case file data.

There are three of them; Engrossed in a lesbian orgy!

Two of them are twins and they were getting it on with each other. Which, in theory, is cool, but there was nothing appealing about this practical application.
Their heads look like giant Lima beans. Their fanged and serpent hinged mouths suckled and bit at one another lustily.
The third one looks like a very long two-by-four with a nose better suited as a climbers pick.
She’s writhing on the sofa-

Whoa.
Scratch that.

That’s not a sofa. That’s another lesbian! A really fat lesbian!
She looks like Buddha. Except wider.

This is not how it’s supposed to look.
I can’t believe porn lied to me.

And to make them even less attractive, their bodies are swollen to bursting with their meals. I can actually see the outline of the victims body pushing against the stretched skin.

“Sisters” one of them speaks.
“Dessert has arrived.”

I’m busted.

It takes another few moments for Buddha and Two-By-Four to clue in. The intensity of their climaxes alone will no doubt cause me serious mental problems later on.

I feel kind of silly waiting for them to notice.

One of the Lima bean sisters clears her throat loudly. She turns to me and smiles in what I can only interpret as a quiet embarrassment.

They are surprisingly calm and don’t seem concerned at my presence.

Two-By-Four sees me and smiles. Her venomous fangs flick out of their fleshy sheaths in anticipation. “Do you like what you see?” she hisses hungrily.
She uncoils her long body, caressing the bulge in her midsection.

“Come” beckons Buddha with a greasy bratwurst finger.

I raise my gun and point it at Two-By-Four.

Confusion ripples across their faces as they look at one another.

They have obviously misinterpreted the apathy on my face and the hard-on in my pants.
Everyone does.

“Sisters,” Two-By-Four’s voice is heavy with dread. “He can SEE us!”
See us?
Oh.
Now I get it.
That’s how they’re able to disguise themselves. They must use some sort of psychic suggestion to make people think they are seeing something else.

Too bad I’m impervious.

As one, they recoil. They begin convulsing, desperate to regurgitate their anchoring meals.

“Imposs-“

Lima Bean Two starts to say something, but the blast from my revolver drowns it out. The bullet punches a quarter-sized hole in her misshapen forehead, blowing the back out like a shattered pumpkin.

Lima Bean One tries to flee, but my next bullet rips into her cheek, boring through his face and out the other side, severing the jaw off at the hinges.

Buddha is completely immobile, making her an easy target. I plug her with two shots dead center and she goes completely still.

I turn my attention back to Two-By-Four. She has managed to barf up a naked leg, from the knee down. It’s sticking out of her mouth.

She stops cold when she hears the click of the hammer, and her eyes roll towards me. I don’t say a word. What would be the point? There’s nothing I can say that would be of any value to either of us.

I pull the trigger and her right eyeball vanishes.
I pull the trigger again and her head splits apart, exposing more of the victim’s upper thigh.

I stand there for a long time.
Admiring my bloody work.

The blaming finger of my conscience is stabbing painfully into my soul.

This is all my doing. I did this. I killed these boys. I could have prevented their deaths.

Fuck it.

I banish this useless introspective bullshit from my mind. The only thing waiting for me at the end of that road is self loathing. I have enough already.

Instead I refocus and delve into my next problem.

How do I get rid of the bodies?

Only one method comes to mind and I head out into the garage to look for some gasoline.

Too bad.

It’s a nice house.

On the bright side though, my boner’s gone.