MicroHorror

Randall Wayne Glenn wasn’t a household name. At least he wasn’t one yet. But he was working on it. So far, over the last eighteen months, he had strangled, raped and mutilated twelve streetwalking prostitutes. Tonight would be his lucky thirteenth.

His mind pounded as he drove past the rundown hotels, grimy fast-food restaurants and rundown buildings looking for the hookers that only came out at night. She would be dirty, that’s for sure. All women who had sex were dirty. Even his mother, who was a saint, was filthy and dirty like all of the others.

Randall cruised the dark, dank neighborhood, choosing his potential victim carefully. A couple of prospectives came to his window, but for some reason they just weren’t right. It just couldn’t be anyone. They had to be someone worthy of being a victim of Randall Wayne Glenn.

As his heart began to pound in anticipation, Randall began to worry. What if he were stopped by the police or if someone saw him that might know him or remember him? But that was all part of the pleasure of the hunt. The feeling passed as he focused on his objective.

Then, just like the last twelve times, she came out of nowhere. A tiny woman emerged from an alley. She had pale skin, ruby red lipstick, and short jet-black page-boy-length hair. Covering her petite frame was a pair of thigh high, black patent leather boots, black patent leather short-shorts and a black leather halter top. She had probably just committed a sodomistic act with some stranger. Fresh filth; he liked that the best.

He pulled over to her and asked if she “wanted a date.” That’s all it took to get her to come around to the passenger side, opened the door and got in.

The black leather pixie began to fondle Randall before he could put the car in gear. “Slow down,” he implored. “I know a place that is a little more private.”

This one is eager, he thought. She must be very, very dirty. I’ll kill her extra slow.

He drove his car to a secluded area in a nearby warehouse district. It was an area that was midway between a functioning industrial district and upscale loft apartments. Now, the only people here were prostitutes, johns, winos, rats, and one crazed serial killer.

As soon as he had parked the car and turned off the engine, his passenger quickly began to fondle him again. At first, Randall behaved like any other man. Then, at some point, his rage was triggered. Maybe it was her tongue running up and down his neck, or maybe her hands groped a little further down his pants than he wanted. It could have been a flashback to some childhood trauma that only occurred when he was preparing to murder his next victim. Whatever it was, it made him explode in an eruption of a white hot anger.

He abruptly pushed her aside. The woman pulled herself away in a panic. “What’s wrong, don’t you like me?” she asked.

“You’re so filthy, so filthy. You’re just like all the others. And now, you’ll die like all of the others!”

He grabbed her by the throat with his coarse, calloused hands. His tendons began to grip her throat like a vise as he began to choke the life out of her body. She began to struggle violently, only adding to Randall’s sexual arousal. But, unlike all of the rest, her hands grabbed onto his. Her long nails sunk into his wrists and she began to pull his hands away from her throat. Then, with one push, she threw Randall’s arms of her and he slammed into the driver’s side door with a thump.

She looked Randall in the eyes as her own eyes turned into a bright red orbs. Long fangs suddenly protruded through her gums. She grinned as she said in a hissing tone, “Honey, this just ain’t your night!”