Sex and Murder Magazine

By Scott Lange

Today I wake like I do many mornings, startled by the alarm clock, groggy, with fuzzy thoughts and just a bit hung over. I reach to the nightstand and grab my Crackberry; it’s my lifeline to the real world, or is it the virtual world, some days the line blurs. I smack the snooze button.

I have gotten in the habit of giving myself enough time in the mornings to hit snooze a couple more times in case, well, in case I had a few more beers than usual. This morning isn’t any different.

Since divorcing a year ago, life has been very mundane. I haven’t been in a hurry to re-enter the real world. A painful end to my marriage left many deep and unhealed wounds. Days have turned to weeks, then months and now a year. On a typical day I wake up, go to work, stop at the store for beer, sometimes get some take out from a restaurant or else it’s the high carb diet—liquid bread, beer.

The evenings don’t get much better. I spend my time on the internet, occasionally porn sites (I’ve found some great free ones that don’t require a credit card or pass word hack); however, what I do most is social networking sites: MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, eHarmony or Match.com. I even ventured to Adult Friend Finder, but that just scared the crap out of me. There are some crazy, psycho, sex-crazed, diseased people out there. I have multiple accounts, some with my real name, others with my alter egos.

But last night was different. Last night was set apart because I agreed to meet someone in the real world. I have been trading emails with her for weeks, and I finally gave in. I figure it’s time to see what’s out there. This is a first since my split. I’m meeting her tonight after work.

I do not like my job. There’s no joy in it. The last year has been no exception. Working as a mortgage banker in the worst economic downturn in 70 years is no walk in the park. I’ve seen it all, families that have lost their jobs, idiots that refinanced and blew the equity on swimming pools, new furniture, or boob jobs. Not to mention the fact that I was fresh off losing a house and being saddled with a huge amount of debt myself. It made the job a bit surreal at times, making me long for quitting time and a twelve pack of beer.

I just didn’t care, hell the bank didn’t even care. I just wanted to get through the day so I could get home, drink and go to the place that I felt safe, the internet.

I manage to get through this day just as I have so many before, not returning calls, avoiding my boss, and acting like I actually give a squirt of piss when I speak to a customer. Today I felt a little motivation, the anticipation of meeting someone. I have not met someone new in years, the excitement and anxiousness made the hours seem like minutes.

The past year I have dreaded coming home. My ex and I had no children, and she got the damn dog. My house is virtually empty; just the essentials, a bed, television and a laptop. She and I tried having kids, it just did not happen. We tried everything and spent a small fortune in the process with no results, just more debt and huge wall of blame and guilt between us.

After months of trying, I came home from work and she was crying on the couch, she said the doctor told her that her eggs were that of an eighty-year-old woman and she could never get pregnant. Nothing I said, nothing I did could console her. I shouldered all the blame, maybe it was she that could not have a kid but it was me that took the blame, feeling like I failed my wife, we barely spoke or made love for the next six months.

Today, when I returned home from work, none of that mattered. I felt alive—more than I have in a very long time. Time to get ready, I pop in a CD of my favorite band—Mötley-fucking-Crüe. They have a great song “Chicks = Trouble.” It’s become my theme song of sorts. Perhaps I harbor some bitterness towards my ex, although it’s gotten better because we haven’t spoken in months.

I shower and manscape, just on the off chance I seal the deal on the first date. I’m ready. I’m ready.

I’m ready.

We’ve agreed to meet at a little bar near my house. It’s this cool Irish/Spanish pub called Patty Rodriguez. You can get tapas and Guinness, which is a great combo that most people would never think of.

It’s Thursday night and the bar is packed. I always come here on Thursday, because they have this cover band, Dead Seattle Musicians, who play nothing but early 90’s Seattle grunge. The singer is talented, effortlessly switching from the angst of Kurt Cobain, to the passion of Eddie Vedder, and on to the soulfulness of Chris Cornell. Although the lead guitarist—holy crap—that dude is channeling Jimi Hendrix.

Sitting at a table near the front, I order a beer. The band breaks into a great version of Alice in Chains’ “Them Bones.” The waitress brings my beer, it’s cloudy and unfiltered. It tastes crisp and clean, with a hint of orange, and finishes with a slight, hoppy bitterness. I love summer for the hefeweizen,

My first hefe of the summer, and my first date in…a really long time. About half way through the beer, my Crackberry vibrates. It’s a text from her; she’s parking the car.

Holy crap, I’m nervous. I actually feel a bit horny. I hope she doesn’t want a hug because, I might have a hard on.

I slam what’s left of my beer and try to compose myself.

I close my eyes for a moment and try to psyche myself up.

Please, don’t be an idiot, just relax, be yourself, be yourself.

Good God, if there was ever a time all that fucking money I spent on counseling should payoff, this is the time. After all that has happened, I need something good to happen in my life. I deserve to be happy; at least, that’s what my shrink says.

When I open my eyes I see her. Wow! There is a God, and today he answered my prayer. This woman is a stunning beauty, with the body of a Hollywood starlet. I’m speechless as she introduces herself.

“Hi, I’m Natalie”

Thank God she extends her hand because my worst fear has come true and I’m sporting a giant hard one. You get pretty freaking horny after a year. I can barely speak.

“Hi…I…I’m R-Randy.”

We shake hands and she tells me not to be nervous, just relax and be myself. She says exactly what I need to hear, and my nerves calm. We sit and speak.

I believe that in the past year my perception of time has distorted, maybe because of the excessive alcohol consumption or perhaps it’s too much internet porn, but this night feels endless. Natalie and I connect almost instantly, as if we knew each other before, as if, somehow, the cliché of love at first sight is actually true.

The hours pass as the most engaging conversation of my entire life evolves into holding hands across the table and playful footsies. None of the shit I’ve endured matters anymore, it’s almost as if it never happened. This night and this beautiful, young lady have made me forget, or at least not focus, on my pain for the first time in a year. We both love the same things and have similar interests. It’s as if she somehow has crawled inside my brain, pulled me out, and became a female version of me.

We order another round of beers and I excuse myself to use the restroom. I return to find the fresh beers at the table.

Ah beer, it’s been my best friend for the last year. It’s never let me down and never betrayed me. Even after the nights I drink too much, I blame myself, not the beer. After all, the beer didn’t drink me. I was the one looking to forget, to feel numb and block the pain. My friend beer was always there and happy to oblige.

When I sit down Natalie and I share a look, and time seems to stands still. I raise my glass in a toast from my old friend to my new one. We toast and drink. This night could not get any better. We share deep thoughts, speaking of what love really means to us. We have similar life goals.

The internet is a digital cupid, and it may have found me my true love.

I awake naked and tied up, on my back and spread-eagle on a bed. My first reaction is I just drank too much and had wild sex. Damn it! Kinky, wild sex and I don’t remember it.

Now I’m blaming the beer.

I feel a sharp pain in my foot and the fog starts to clear. Sitting up, still blurry-eyed, I see my foot.

It’s covered in…covered in blood.

What the hell happened?

As my head clears and my vision sharpens the pain increases. The toes on my right foot are gone! I scream as loud as I can, thrashing in the bed, but it only intensifies the pain.

I scream for help, and she appears above me. I can see dried blood along her hairline.

“You fucking bitch, you cut my toes off!”

She responds in the coldest voice I’ve ever heard.

“You know love, they’re not the best attached…body part.”

She gently places her index finger on my lips, and pulls it ever so slightly, twisting her finger across my lips, and moving it down toward my chin.

I tremble with fear.

“Relax baby, we’re just getting started”

I pull hard on the ropes, in hopes that they snap.

“What do you want from me?”

“I just want to get to know you a little better. I find this way people tend to be a bit more honest with me. I just want us to have some quality time.” She sits beside me on the bed, smiles and reveals a small kitchen knife.

“You see Randy, on first dates people are never honest; they put their best foot forward, try to impress. I want to know the real you. What makes you tick? I’ve learned that when faced with pain, and maybe death, that honesty is free flowing. I want to know everything about you.”

“I’m not telling you shit!”

“That’s what they say at first.”

She raises the knife up, and, with a fierce thrust, penetrates my arm.

The pain is excruciating. I forget all about my toes; my arm is on fire. Blood pours out, staining the white sheets.

She leaves the knife in my arm, and leans closer to me.

“You see Randy; you’re not in a place to negotiate with me, and you will tell me exactly what I want to know.”

The pain is overwhelming. Natalie places her hand beside mine. I want to grab it, but I can’t move my hand. The knife must have cut through ligaments.

She starts to walk her fingers along my arm. I can’t move and I fear that she’ll pull the knife out.

“Answer this for me Randy,” still walking towards the knife, “why did you leave your wife?” Her fingers reach the knife. She gently places a finger on the top, and ever so softly pushes on it. Sounds of agony escape my mouth. She pushes the knife again, just a bit harder.

“You were so talkative last night. Was that just the beer talking? I’m just asking for a little honesty. Humor me baby. After all, you are naked. I may reward you.”

“She cheated on me.”

“Now was that so hard? But really, why did she stray? Honestly, you look good naked, I’m sure you could satisfy her. There must be more to the story.” Her fingers walk across my arm, towards my chest, and then head south. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind. What will she do to me if I can’t perform?

“We stopped having sex after we found out we couldn’t have kids. I thought it was my fault.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, it was all my fault”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up, your wife cheated on you, you didn’t make her do that, she did that all on her own.” Her hand reaches my penis, she begins to fondle and play with it. She seems to be getting excited, while I feel nothing. This crazy bitch, all of the blood is leaving my body I will never get it up. “What’s wrong? Don’t you find me attractive?”

“Aside from the fact you’re a sadistic bitch?”

“The name calling isn’t necessary!” She lets go of me and slams the knife deeper into my arm.

I must have passed out.

I’m awoken by a splash of ice-cold water on my face, to see her, standing above me. This time there’s less fear; I’ve almost come to terms with my demise, it’s now just a matter of how much pain I can endure. I have had my toes removed—I’m not even sure how that happened. The knife wound burns, sending a searing pain up my arm. The worst, I’m sure, is yet to come.

She sounds like she’s done this before. Women are not supposed to be serial killers. I wonder though, my ex fucked me over pretty bad, but as much as I’ve thought of killing sprees while in a drunken stupor, I’ve never acted on it. Someone must have done a number on this lady. Maybe I can try to empathize with her and save my ass.

“Look Natalie, I’m sorry for the name calling, let’s try this again. You are a beautiful woman. I knew that the moment I laid my eyes on you.” All of my muscles ache, how long have I been tied up? My foot throbs and my arm still burns, I realize that I have to cooperate if I want any chance of survival. “My wife and I drifted apart after we learned that we would never have children. For six months we hardly spoke; we had sex just once, and that was after we went to a birthday party for a close friend. We both had a lot to drink that night so I guess the drunkenness must have made us forget our resentment.”

Natalie sits beside me, I try not to flinch for fear that she’ll snap again. She gently caresses my chest. The pace of her breath increases, her head gently tilts back and her lips part, releasing a small gasp. This twisted bitch is getting off.

I continue to talk.

“About six weeks later she came to me and said she was pregnant. It was a miracle, suddenly all of the anger and resentment went away, and it was the best nine months of our marriage. I felt close to her again, I felt loved and I loved her”

She seems to be increasingly excited, caressing of my chest, changes to rubbing. Her entire body seems to be getting into it now. She moves her hand toward my arm.

“But you still divorced; you said she cheated.” Her fingers walk slowly toward the knife. “Why?”

The fear returns. I try to conceal it, I concentrate, I can’t let her see it, she will feed on it and use it against me. If I’m going to die, then I die; but she isn’t going to get some satisfaction from my suffering.

“Why did she cheat? The same reason most people do, they are looking for something different, something easy, and something without the work. It’s far too easy to toss out the bad apple and get a new one. It’s easy to sell out someone when you only think about yourself.”

Her fingers, one step at a time, still creep towards the knife. What the fuck does she want me to say?

Her little, walking digit-man reaches the knife. Her index finger rests on the top of the knife and slowly pirouettes around it. My heart pounds; I can feel the sweat on my brow. Delicately, her hand wraps around the knife. I brace myself.

The knife twists. Time slows down, and I can feel every muscle fiber that she cuts. I can hear the blood slush and gurgle. Side to side she turns the knife, then rips it from my arm. I scream in pain, while she seems to be enjoying some kind of sexual satisfaction.

“What the fuck? I answered your question.”

“Yes you did and I thank you for that.” She runs the tip of the knife along my arm, not hard enough to cut, but hard enough for me to feel the edge. “But you see, Randy, we are brothers in arms of a sort. My husband cheated on me too. Except, he blamed me—I was his scapegoat. He did no wrong, he walked on water; I made him cheat.”

“You said earlier that I didn’t make her do it; how did you make him cheat? You’re being a hypocritical, psycho bitch!” Shit! I shouldn’t have said that; she isn’t going to like that.

She plunges the knife deep into my arm again.

“Randy, Randy, Randy, I asked you not to name call. I thought we had an understanding; we were just starting to get along.” She rips the knife from my arm and plunges into my chest. Air rushes out of my lung. There are air bubbles and hisses coming from the wound. My consciousness slips away; but, before I can pass out, smelling salts are shoved up my nose.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I force the words out with a rasp. “Please, Natalie, what do you want from me?”

She stands and licks the blood splatter from her had, sucking on her index finger as if she were loving a man. Without a word, she leaves the room.

My eyes roll back in my head, but I can’t pass out because the pungent odor of the smelling salts is keeping me conscious. I can’t imagine the horrors that she will return with.

“What do you want from me?” I scream. “What do you want?”

I look around the room. It appears to be an unfinished basement. To my left is a chair with my clothes thrown on. On the floor beside it is my Crackberry—my connection to the world. If somehow I could reach it.

Natalie returns with a duffle bag in one hand and a meat tenderizer mallet in the other. This must be it, the end of my life.

She walks towards me, a sultry sway in her hips.

“You see Randy, there really isn’t much that you can say that is right, you are not gonna win. This is my time and you are all part of the plan.” She sets the duffle bag beside the bed. “I’ve been watching you for a long time. You see Jake…”

“Jake?” I sputter.

“Oh, I’ve figured out all your online aliases, I’ve been just waiting for the right time to reach out to you. We’ve known each other for a long time, you just didn’t know it—but I’ve known you. I followed you on all your internet journeys; you never made your profiles private so it wasn’t too hard to track you down.

“I know you left your wife because, on the day your baby boy was born, you discovered her adultery; from the moment you saw the baby you knew it wasn’t yours. The child was Asian.”

“How do you know that?”

She whacks my knee with the mallet. Bones crack, and warm blood flows from my leg.

“It’s my turn to talk,” she says. “I have a gift for you.”

She tosses the tenderizer to the side and grabs for the duffle bag. Reaching inside, she pulls out another bag, on which she loosens the drawstring, dumping its contents on the bed.

A human head.

She grabs it by the hair and lifts it.

“I realize the face is a bit bruised and cut up, but do you recognize your wife?”

A wave of nausea comes across my body; I turn my head to the side and vomit.

“Jesus!”

“Yes Randy, this is your wife, or should I say this was your wife. I met her at the fertility clinic, we spoke frequently.”

“What?” I gasp. “I don’t understand.”

“She told me everything. In fact, I may know more about your relationship with her than you do; we became very close. You see, sweet Jake, it wasn’t she that couldn’t have children, it was you. You are completely sterile—your shooting blanks darling.

“She knew that from the start but never told you. She was afraid to. I think in that respect she actually did love you—not wanting to hurt you. She knew that you loved her.

“But your wife wanted a child so badly she was willing to compromise anything and everything. She developed a secret affair with her doctor, and, as I’m sure you figured out, it was the doctor, the Filipino bastard, who fathered the child. He’s here too.”

Natalie reaches for the duffle bag, pulls out another bag, and dumps the doctor’s head beside me. Dry heaves rip through me.

“You see Jake… I can call you Jake, can’t I? After all, I have seen you naked; and hmm…I do like what I see. The good doctor was my husband, and I, much like you, cannot have children. We are genetic dead ends, the end of the line, and our spouses acted on the most basic Darwinian urge; the desire to reproduce and continue their lineage.”

“Oh my god Natalie, they did a terrible thing, but Jesus Christ you cut their fucking heads off. I understand your pain, but…”

“You do? Exactly how do you understand? Do you know the sacrifices I made to get that piece of shit through medical school? I put myself on hold, I gave of myself for my husband and he repays me by knocking up some slut. We could have adopted. His needs always came first, he didn’t care who got hurt as long as he got what he wanted. I was just collateral damage.”

“You said we are brothers in arms, why are you doing this to me? You got your revenge, please; I never did anything to you.”

She leans forward and softly kisses me on the lips.

“My dear Jake this isn’t about you. It’s been all about me from the start.”

She reaches back into the duffle bag and retrieves a machete. Sitting on the bed, she lays the death blade across my chest. Fear consumes me, my body trembles, I can’t speak, I can’t scream. She leans over to the rope that ties my severely wounded arm and unties it. She holds my hand; I’m still unable to move it. I feel nothing.

She leans over me, whispering in my ear. I can feel her breathe.

“Your time has come sweet, sweet Jake. You asked me why I’m doing this.” She sits back, caresses my hand, and then lays it on my chest, inches from the machete. “It’s the simple cliché: Hell hath no fury like a women scorned. I gave everything of myself only to be repaid with lies and adultery”

An adrenaline rush like nothing I’ve ever felt shot through my body. I could feel the pain in my arm, still burning, but somehow, I forced my hand to move.

I grabbed the machete handle and, with everything in me, I slash her across the neck. Blood sprays everywhere as her throat opens ear to ear.

Natalie grasps at her throat, blood spurting between her fingers. She falls on my chest and, with her last breath, says, “Thank you.”

Her lifeless body slides to the floor.

I’m left on the bed, covered in blood, butchered and mutilated, but still alive. Beside me are the severed heads. With my free arm, I push them to the floor. I pause for a moment, thanking God that I am still, somehow, alive.

In that moment of clarity and reflection I realize, damn it, Nikki Sixx was right: chicks are trouble and my friend beer, even after a bad night, never left me with more than a hangover.



















































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