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Honey,
Is That A Dead
Hooker Under Our Bed?
by J.A. Kazimer
“Oh,
yes,” Mrs. Kristy
McMillan said,
thrusting her head
against the
fluffy, hotel pillow.
The creak of the
mattress springs
kept
a steady rhythm.
The sexual symphony
sounded vaguely
like: Creak… groan… oh,
baby… harder… creak… With
an oh, God, oh,
yes, thrown in
for good
measure.
Stan
McMillan, the Waterbed King of
the greater northeastern Peoria
area and Kristy’s husband of two
and a half days, counted backwards
from one thousand, trying to talk
himself out of coming. The conversation
in his brain went like this: 976...Don’t
do it...975…Cum now and she’ll
divorce you…974…Oh, God…SHIT!
“Damn
it.” She smacked him in the head
when he collapsed on top of her
in an exhausted heap of spent,
sweaty lust. Rolling his body off
hers and onto the red satin sheets,
she sat up. In the eerie glow of
light streaming from the Las Vegas
strip below, she opened the nightstand
drawer, searching for her own satisfaction.
Her hand brushed a leather bound
bible, caressing the cheap inlayed
gold.
Shit,
where was it? Her hand pushed further
back into the drawer, locating
George, her vibrating companion,
aptly named for the forty-third
president. George was big, loud,
and uncaring about poor Stan’s
premature incompetence issues.
She
pulled George out, and flicked him
on. The low murmur of rattling plastic
and batteries hummed throughout the
room, as a pinpointed beam of light
shot from the tip. George wasn’t
very bright, but it got the job done.
More than she could say about her
husband. “Uuuuhhhhhaaa,” she moaned,
pressing the cold plastic to her.
“Honey?” Stan
wrinkled his nose.
“What?!” Patience
wasn’t a virtue for Kristy, and neither
was brains, but Stan loved her anyway.
It might have had something to do
with her d-cup breasts, thirty-inch
waist, and bleach blonde hair. Big
boobs, a mouth like a vacuum, and
a hot body went a long way to make
up for half-frozen dinners, and thousand
dollar invoices from pet psychics.
However, late at night, satiated
and satisfied, Stan knew it went
much deeper than the physical. They
were two of a kind, two peas in the
proverbial pod. His friends didn’t
understand what he saw in her, but
they didn’t know his terrible secret
either. No one did.
He
waved a hand in front of his nose. “Do
you smell something?”
“If
you are trying to get me to smell
your farts, forget it.” She turned
George off, and switched on the light.
Stan
frowned. “No…it smells like something
died…”
Eyes
narrowing, she sniffed the air. “Yewwww.” She
reached over him, picking up the
hotel phone. Pressing zero, she waited
for the operator to answer.
“How
may I direct your call?” the polite
voice on the phone asked.
“My
room smells like death.”
“Excuse
me?”
Kristy
repeated the comment. “My husband
is paying twelve hundred a night
for this suite, and it stinks.” She
could hear the clattering of keys
on a keyboard.
Finally,
the voice said, “Have you looked
under the bed?”
“What?”
“Under
the bed. This is Vegas after all.” The
voice sighed and hung up the phone.
She
scrambled off the bed. “Move away
from the bed!”
“What?
What is it?” Stan glanced around,
confusion and fear growing in his
eyes.
She
pointed to the mattress, and he shrugged
his shoulders in question. She indicated
again, stomping her foot. “Look under
the mattress, you jerk.”
Gripping
the edge of the bed, he tugged. The
mattress slid a few inches to the
right. Kristy stood behind him, peering
into the darkness. “I can’t see anything.
Can you?”
He
shook his head.
“Pull
it all the way off.”
Swallowing
hard, he did as she asked. The mattress
fell onto his foot. “Fuck,” he squealed
and jumped around, arms flailing
like a skittish cat. His fist smashed
into the glitzy Tiffany lamp on the
nightstand, knocking it to the floor
with a crash. Bits of glass flew
everywhere and the room went dark.
“Fuck,” Kristy
echoed, as he slammed into her, knocking
her to the shag pink carpeting. Stan,
naked and hopping on one foot, ran
into the nightstand again, sending ‘George’ and
himself flying backwards into the
bed frame. There was a loud bang,
and then dead silence.
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“Stan?” she ventured from
her place on the floor. “Honey, are you hurt?”
“Call an ambulance!” came
his reply.
“Oh, baby. Did you break
something?” She stumbled to the phone, dialing 911.
A weak beam of light shot
from inside the bed frame, as did the buzz of George on
high speed. “Not exactly.”
Kristy gazed into the bed
frame. Stan lay sprawled on top of what looked like a dead
body. In one of Stan’s hands was George, and in the other,
a prosthetic leg with bright purple toenails airbrushed
onto its stubby plastic toes. Kristy’s scream echoed along
the strip twenty stories below.
#
“Until two hours ago, you
had no idea there was a dead hooker under the bed?” A bored
cop in a bright yellow oxford shirt asked Kristy. They
were standing in the hallway outside the suite, waiting
for the crime scene technicians to clear it.
Nodding, she wiped her eyes
with a snotty tissue. “How could this have happened?”
“Well, this is Vegas after
all.” He shrugged. “We get three or four of these cases
a year. Fucking tourist.” He paused. “No offense.”
“How long had that poor…woman…been
down there?”
The cop took out a notebook,
and flipped through a few pages. “Looks like twenty-four
to forty-eight hours. Your husband was a lucky man.” She
glared at him, and he quickly added, “If the body had been
in full rigor when he landed on top of her, he might have
been hurt.”
Twisting her wedding ring,
she declared, “But we’ve been in this suite for the last
two and a half days.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed. “Have
you been with Stan the entire time?”
Her face paled. “Stan would
never do something like this. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Doubt
crept into her eyes. “Of course, his first wife died under
mysterious circumstances…”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, you see, I met Stan
six months ago. He’d been widowed for four…”
The cop touched the tip of
his pen to paper and took notes as Kristy told him all
about Stan. At one point, his hand cramped and he had to
ask her to slow down. Fifteen minutes later, the sordid
tale of Stan’s first wife’s death, and how he couldn’t
satisfy Kristy in bed were duly noted.
#
“Mr. McMillan, we have your
fingerprints all over the victim, as well as DNA. A casino
camera caught you in the bar chatting with her three hours
before. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?” A plain-clothes
detective said in a friendly tone. His freshly pressed
suit, and product-slicked hair made Stan feel like a bum
in comparison. Stan’s hair stuck up at odd angles, and
he wore a pink hotel bathrobe.
“I told you already, Officer.” Detective
G.P. Roberts was neatly typed on the shiny metal of the
detective’s badge, but Stan refused to call him Detective. “My
fingerprints and…other stuff…got on her body when I fell
on top of her. As for talking to her in the bar, I have
no idea what you are talking about. I’d never even met
her.” Stan shook his head.
That was the truth, wasn’t
it? He closed his eyes, and pictured her face—eyes and
mouth wide—eyes vacant, so like his mothers. She looked
like something out of a Wes Craven flick, a thick sheen
of plastic reflecting off the dildo-flashlight. Like Freddy
Krueger in a bad porno movie.
“She was a beautiful woman…well,
if you could overlook the prosthetic leg and the penis…” Detective
Roberts smiled, as Stan flinched. “Was that why you killed
her, because she was a man?”
“She was a man?”
“Yes, born Radcliff Reginald
the Third.”
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Stan gave a whole body shiver. “He…she…looked
like a woman…” The detective shrugged. “This is Las Vegas—Drag
Queen capital of the World.” He leaned forward, resting
his meaty arms against the table. “So the two of you got
acquainted at the bar, you invited her up to your room
for a little action while the misses took in a show, you
got what you wanted—a little sucky, a little fucky—and
blam out comes her penis and all bets are off. So you wrapped
a Glad bag around her head…”
“No!” Stan threw his hands
over his ears. “I didn’t kill her…him.” He pounded his
fist on the table, the pink sleeves of the housecoat muting
his ire. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not even your first wife?”
Stan’s mouth opened, but
nothing came out.
“Mrs. Debra McMillan was
found inside the trash can of the family home.” The detective
read from a file. “The cause of death was asphyxiation.
The lead investigator believed she tripped and fell into
the waste basket, which conveniently tangled around her
head as she slowly suffocated to death.”
Stan squeaked, “How…
“Now do you want to keep
playing games or are you going to come clean?”
Stan sighed. This was going
to be a long night.
#
“Will the defendant please
rise?” a tall, African American bailiff said, gesturing
to Stan.
He shuffled to his feet.
A grim-faced, lawyer stood next to him, staring at the
tabletop. Kristy, dressed in black as if she was attending
a funeral rather than a trial, sat directly behind him,
softly sniffling into a red, silk handkerchief. Stan swallowed
hard, and faced the judge.
The honorable, William Legacy,
read from a small slip of paper. “In the matter of the
state of Nevada versus Stanley Homer McMillan, what say
you?” he asked the juror foreman, a man with sharp, irregular
features and an ulcer.
The foreman stood, clearing
his throat like a cat with a hairball. “We the jury,” he
paused looking directly at Stan, “find the defendant guilty
of second degree murder.”
With a choked cry, Kristy
jumped from her seat. “Nooooo,” she wailed, grasping at
an emotionless Stan as he was dragged away in handcuffs.
Detective G. P. Roberts nodded in satisfaction—one more
dirt bag off the streets.
#
Later that night, after giving
interviews to all the local news stations, Kristy sat,
sipping a vodka martini and flipping through the hundreds
of hotel porno stations. Her thoughts drifted to Stan.
He had looked devastated as the cops led him off—almost
defeated—a broken shell of the once powerful Waterbed King.
She rubbed her tired eyes, and shakily stood. Too much
vodka, she thought, weaving slightly.
Heading into the bathroom,
she stripped off her black dress. Underneath she wore nothing
but lotion and sheer onyx stockings. She twisted the shower
knob to hot, and stepped into the steamy water, letting
it run along her cellulite-free body.
Bang.
Kristy jumped, her heart
slamming wildly in her overdeveloped chest. She quickly
shut off the water, and grabbed a towel. “Hello?” she tentatively
called. “Is anyone there?”
No response.
She made her way into the
bedroom, carefully searching the shadows. Nothing. Sighing
with relief, she sat on the waterbed, running her fingers
through her wet hair. Drips of water formed a puddle on
the carpeting underneath her feet.
A voice from the shadows
of the thick fabric curtains whispered, “Did you look under
the bed?”
Kristy screamed, dropping
her towel.
The curtain moved and from
the darkness, Detective G. P. Roberts stepped out.
“Where the hell have you
been?” Kristy asked, throwing herself into his arms. “I’ve
been waiting for over an hour.”
“Can’t get enough of me?”
She smiled—a demure, coy
smile meant to tempt, tease, and ultimately bring a man
to his knees. “More like I want to make sure you don’t
fuck this up. Jail is no place for a lady.”
He looked hurt. “When have
I ever made a mistake?”
She tilted her head. “That’s
true.”
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Carrying her to the bed,
he dropped her onto the red satin sheets. The water filled
bed sloshed and her silicone breasts rode the wave like
a pro. He came down next to her, sliding his hands along
her shapely curves with a smirk. “It makes me nuts to think
of his hands on you.”
Pulling at G.P.’s belt, she
smiled. “They weren’t on me all that long. As a matter
of fact, I had a more fulfilling relationship with a tube
of plastic.”
“Well, I’m here to make you
forget all about your plastic pal, George…”
As if he could, she thought
with a grin.
#
Two hours later, G.P. had
been good to his word. Kristy yawned and stretched like
a well-fed black widow, smiling lazily at his muscled body. “Where
ever did you find a transvestite, one-legged hooker?”
He shrugged. “A dumpster
next to Circus Circus. He’d been dead a day or so.”
“I almost shit when I saw
the leg. You could have warned me.” She playfully tugged
on his dark chest hair.
He laughed. “I wanted it
to be a surprise.”
“That it was.” She sat up,
pulling the sheet over her breasts. “The videotape in the
bar…how did you do that?”
“I hired some hooker to approach
dear old Stan, make it look like he was looking for some
action.” He twisted a blonde lock of her hair through his
fingers. “The video was grainy, and the bar is pretty dark.
It could have been anyone. But as long as the jury bought
it, that’s all that mattered.”
“Good point.
And buy it they did.” She laughed, thinking of the jurors’ disgusted
faces as they watched Stan pick up a gimpy transvestite.
“So Mrs. McMillan, what do
you plan to do with your jailbird husband’s millions?”
Closing her eyes, she pictured
all the things she would do, and buy—a houseboat on the
Rivera, a ski cabin in Vail, and a winery in Napa…
“Why didn’t you just kill
him out right?” G.P. asked, scratching his head.
For a detective, he wasn’t
all that bright. “If he died, half of the estate would
go to his various relatives and friends. Hell, even his
maid gets a couple thousand.” She shook her head. “No,
I want it all. I deserve it too after putting up with his
slobbery kisses, sweaty balls, and premature ejaculation.”
“You are one cold hearted
woman,” G.P. said, kissing her neck. “You always have been.”
“And that’s what you love
about me.” She kissed him, trapping his hands against the
headboard with thick, silk scarves. He smiled, closing
his eyes as she wound the bonds around his wrists. Let
the games begin…
#
In the mirror above the bed,
Kristy watched G.P. sleep, his hands still tied to the
bed. How innocent and sweet he looked, like a child resting
after a long, hard day at play. She smiled, and kissed
his forehead. He moaned, but didn’t return to consciousness.
Her hand moved toward the
nightstand, a smile on her face. She let her fingers do
the walking, shifting from side to side until they found
the ultimate prize. Ah, she thought, as they touched the
cold, shimmering plastic. Quietly, she pulled it out, excitement
filling her.
“What th—,” was all G.P.
could get out before the plastic bag was wrapped tightly
around his face. He struggled against his bonds, weakening
as oxygen slowly seeped from his blood. His lungs burned,
and his brain began to shut down. The last thing he saw
through the clear plastic was Kristy’s smiling face and
the love of her life, a ten-inch vibrator named George.
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