mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
98 lines
3.6 KiB
TeX
98 lines
3.6 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{Anal Surgery}
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\chapter[Satanic Red]{Satanic Red: The Third to Last Case of Detective Luke Bavarious}
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I polished my Baretta with a rust-colored rag. I own both the gun
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and the rag because I am a private detective. People come to me to
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solve problems. Problems given to them by others with every sort of
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type. I am a problem solver for them, the people to whom problems
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were given. Today (9am on a Monday) was no different than last
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Monday, until she walked in.
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Anastasia Rexenstein. She poured into my office like a sexual
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cocktail, her dress the color of rusty bulging neck-muscles. Her
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eyes peered into your soul like a peering soul-seeing sage. Her
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smile twisted like a grapevine as she threw a stack of cash in
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front of me. ``I want you to find my daughter,
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Bella-Monica'' she intoned. My eyes grew wider than
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dictionaries as I looked at the financial stuff in front of
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me.
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``Okay'' I murmured.
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Bella-Monica Rexenstein was last seen in the company of noted town
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drunk, Firth Rockwell, at his sea-side cabin near the sea. Speeding
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towards the location at 56 miles an hour, I began to hear the
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giggle of destiny around me. Night spread across the sky like a
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grape-juice stain, the color of darkness, and other dark things.
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Rockwell was probably up to no good, so I triple-checked my
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Baretta, which was given to me when I started my detective
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business. It was loaded. So was I. With alcohol. The sea-side cabin
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approached like a sick cat. ``Let's do this'' I said to
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no one in particular.
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I parked my vehicle and surreptitiously slunk towards the windows.
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A light was on, red, the color the Devil lists as his favorite. My
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eyes narrowed --- I hate the Devil. There was no sign of
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Bella-Monica from the first window, so I approached the second
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window as stealthified as I had the first. I still didn't see her,
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so I proceeded to the west side of cabin and looked in that window.
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I didn't see her there either, so I went to the south side to look
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in that window. Nothing, just like what I thought came after death,
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because I am an atheist detective, because of my experiences, which
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are horrid. But as I came to the east side, I saw movement.
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Inside, Firth Rockwell was wearing apparel, apparel which fluttered
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wavily in the breeze of a fan. He was sharpening a knife, and
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humming the old Irish folk-tune ``I Murder Down a Path''.
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Inadvertently, I hummed along, as it brought back memories of my
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drunken father, who would hum it after four Bud Lights. I felt
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steam rising in me, which I wanted to blow off, in the form of
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shooting Rockwell. But before I could Rockwell left the room.
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Sneaking in through the backdoor, I heard footsteps stepping down
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the steps to the basement. Furtively, I snuck down the same steps,
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hoping to see something. But when I arrived in the underground
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chamber, what I saw was a sight which I didn't want to see.
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Bella-Monica was tied to a chair, with Firth Rockwell placing a
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knife to her throat. I yelled at him ``Stop right there!
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Villain!''. But he just smiled at me. And then he put on a
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wig, and I realized the horrid truth. I vomited a rusty stream from
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my lips, which included burning bile erupting from my nose. For
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with the wig on, Firth Rockwell was Anastasia Rexenstein.
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But then, she pulled the a wig off of Bella-Monica, and I vomited
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again. For Bella-Monica was actually me! Bella-Monica screamed
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harshly ``{\bf listen to me}---'' but I fired my gun at both of them,
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exploding their faces in a shower of blood, brain matter, skull
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bits, and gristle. I fled upstairs and vomited in the sink. For I
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realized, I had just killed my twin brother. I was the last
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Bavarious now. All I could do was sob.
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