Erotica Harem

Title: Pretty Boy Dead

Chapter: Chapter 3

Author: Jon Michaelsen...

Setting: A dark wet street and a park. There was plenty of description here. This is more an emotional kind of chapter so description isn’t the most important aspect here.

Character(s): Red, a killer with a dark past and our victim. We aren’t told who the victim is though he seems to be well off. I could see Red just as well as his victim. I could feel his cold, calculating mind. On the other hand I could feel the pain the victim felt. Great job here.

Referencing: It’s been a while since I read this. This chapter delves into a different realm than the first two chapters.

Plot: Hmm, as I said this chapter takes a turn from the previous ones, so I’m betting this ties in later.

Grammar: Some comma problems, but nothing major.

General: This was an intense, dark chapter. Wow. I was caught up in the attack, I had to catch my breath at the end of it.

Line Edits:



The late model sedan pulled along side the Porche Boxster. Verifying the tag number, the driver pulled further ahead. He cut the corner at 8th and Myrtle and eased next to the curb before shutting off the engine. He emerged from the vehicle dressed in blackNo comma sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers, anddark knit ski facemask, along with a pair of leather gloves shoved in his back pockets. He backtracked to the sports car, aware of the slightest movement in his peripheral. Rounding the corner, he surveyed the immediate vicinity. The fresh scent of rain from an earlier flash-shower permeated the darkness. He saw no one out curbing their dog along the narrow sidewalks or appearing from a darkened driveway headed for an evening stroll. Cars raced along Piedmont Avenue one block over, their tires sloshing through rain-swollen gutters and potholes.

Red, nicknamed for the shock of hair spilling around a large, cherry-pink face spotted with freckles, slowed his pace, eyeing the slick car as he passed by. Another quick glance, and he abruptly pivoted, trotting back to the vehicle with large hands dug deep in his pockets. Head down and inconspicuous, he moved alongside the parked car, scrutinizing the street, glancing at each glowing window of the nestled, restored older homes fronting Myrtle Street.

Convinced no one had noticed him, he eased to the front of the low-riding vehicle, glanced around one final time before ducking beneath the bumper. On his back, he fished an arm up through the mass of wires, hoses and metal in the dense space, locating the spot to insert the elongated wire cutters. The smell of oil and gas on the damp pavement roused his senses. Alarm disarmed, he wriggled out from underneath the vehicle.

Stepping beside the driver’s door, he slipped a slim metal instrument between the glass and rubber perimeter while checking the circumference of the area. Click! The interior light illuminated and with a quick jerk, the door opened to absorb the intruder. In a millisecond, he was inside, checking the rearview and side mirrors, spying for unwanted strangers. He smiled at his genius, confident no one saw him committing the crime. All in a days work.

The criminal was trained by the best imprisoned in the Georgia State penitentiary system. Red spent his last five agonizing years at Reidsville fighting to stay alive among the other hardened criminals, incarcerated for his part in a botched robbery of a convenient store in a suburb north of town. Stupid clerk refused to hand over the money and forced his hand, got himself shot in the process. It paralyzed the fucker from the neck down. Bum luck.

The intruder needed to be swift and precise. Somebody could come along any moment. Heart pumping with adrenaline known only to a hardened criminal, he pulled the release and popped the hood. He thought of pillaging through the vehicle, but the idea escaped him as he recalled the wad of cash tossed his way for agreeing to do the job. More than he could make in a lifetime of slinging hamburgers or mopping up after someone else’s shit, and scoring an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas to boot! Who in the hell said crime doesn’t pay? Fucking jerks should be walking in his shoes right now. After getting the money, he had booked himself and a voluptuous vixen passage on the first Delta Air Lines flight out first thing in the morning, first class of course.

He stepped from the vehicle and waited for a crawling car to pass. It parked several spaces down the street and killed the lights. The passengers exited and walked in the opposite direction toward 10th Street, all absorbed in spirited conversation. With little time remaining, he lifted the hood and took a second to render the car inoperable, yet it took much longer to lower the hatch and press it shut without making a sound. Another quick surveillance and he skulked away, trotting back to his car to wait.

While breaking and entering, he hadn’t noticed the frail old woman peering down from the darkened second floor window of the small 50’s era cottage-style home located across the street, where she often stood, spying on the creatures of the night who invaded the quiet little neighborhood.
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Shortly after midnight, spying eyes followed the figure approaching the shiny sports car. The interior lights illuminated at the crack of the door to reveal its owner, a young male of average height and build. Red couldn’t judge the man’s size or bulk since he was bundled tightly in a long, dark trench coat. He knew could take him out with one, swift blow. He had the aid of surprise and a concealed weapon on his side.

With experienced swiftness, Red extracted himself from the vehicle and slipped along the sidewalk like a cat stalking its prey. He moved within fifty feet of the intended target when a car turned onto the street and headed straight for him. He ducked behind the nearest tree, narrowly avoiding the headlights that would have revealed the large baseball bat in his hands. Seconds later, the car disappeared. He reemerged, intent on finishing the job.

A second pair of peering eyes never lost sight of the masked intruder as she stood horrified, clutching her fleshy throat, unable to move or make a sound.

The interior of the Porche was dark, the occupant gone. Red’s eyes raced along the broken sidewalk and down the street in time to see the mark rounding the corner to the left at the end of the block. Furious, he trotted back to his vehicle. Since the target escaped, he spent the next couple of hours lurking in the shadows. First, he migrated across the street and moved further down the block before finally resting a few feet away from the entrance to the only business open past midnight. A hole-in-the-wall neighborhood pub called Blake’s. A faggot bar he surmised, judging from the clientele trailing in and out.

Leaning against an old, chipped brick wall near the corner, his leg hiked behind for balance, he crushed out a filtered cigarette, the mask and gloves tucked safely out of sight behind him beneath his shirt, secured snugly by his belt. He waited patiently for the mark, at times cruising guys coming and going to ward off suspicion. His stomach churned in disgust. Red, the fag, had cleverly concealed the baseball bat behind his back and fooled anyone who caught his eye that he was one of them.

The glass and metal door swung open and a young man wearing a dark green trench coat fell out of the tavern. He bumped a few patrons as he swung on the door’s metal frame, stepping out to the sidewalk.

“Hey! Watch it, buddy,” snapped a tall bruiser, pulled along by his wide-eyed date.

Catching his balance, the young man trudged up the walkway in swaying stride, crossed 10th Street through intermittent traffic. He entered Piedmont Park on the south side, at the top of the hill, which overlooked a small lake. Red tossed his cigarette and took up pursuit.

The full moon cast its luminous glow across the night sky as broken white clouds raced across an inky backdrop. The stars danced in the heavens, revealing constellations Red sought out as a child. He would first spot the Little Dipper and then locate the Three Little Bears, before searching mightily for the Big Dipper, which often was pointed out to him by his older brother. Those were the happiest days of his troubled life, long before his father had lost his job at a local chemical plant shut down by the E.P.A. Long before the proud man had begun drinking to escape the rejection he faced day in and day out in a dying town. He was unable to find work and eventually turned to beating his wife to release the fury that all but consumed him. It wasn’t long before the broken man turned his angst toward his young sons to further pound out his rage.

Red pushed aside those memories and trailed the shadow riding before him, keeping steady pace as he cut through the park and ducked behind a clump of trees when the target paused to extract a cigarette. The figure struck a match, expelled two quick puffs and shoved the pack into his coat pocket before filling his lungs completely and discarding the smoke in the chilly night air.

Red ached for the crisp sting of menthol. As a hired professional with time running out, he had to regain focus. He slipped gloves over his large, battered hands, pulled the dark wool ski mask over his face and picked up the pace. The mark descended the landscaped embankment some twenty yards ahead.

The temperature outside dropped a good ten degrees in the last hour. The earlier shower chilled the breeze,comma skimming off the small lake at the base of the slope, which nipped at Red’s exposed features. He stepped onto an asphalt walking trail and followed its winding path around the eerie water, deeper into the park where darkness grew dense. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he calculated the precise moment of attack, that split second signaling a point of no return. A private place reserved for criminals lured by greed. He remembered the same oozy feeling came over him as a teenager back home in northern Michigan while stalking through a neighbor’s back yard in the darkness, in search of an ownerless cat. Damn stray never had a chance.

He stopped dead in his tracks. The figure ahead stumbled on some tree roots, staggered and turned an expressionless face skyward, peering through the spiny limbs of a giant oak tree. Though buzzed, the mark managed to keep from tumbling over before regaining balance. Red seized the moment, clinched his teeth hard and sprang forth from the shadows like a lion charging a helpless zebra.

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Two shadows loomed across the dark turf, one stoic and the other advancing fast from behind. Startled, the shorter figure attempted to turn around, but a whack against the upper back and shoulders stunned him. The victim screamed and lurched forward, blindly stumbling in a fit to catch his balance. The man’s face smacked hard against the trunk of an ancient tree, scoring flesh and shattering the cartilage of his nose. Blood quickly filled the eyes and nose, spilling over into his mouth and down his neck. He heaved for air and struggled to catch his breath, managing only a light fluttering sound as the thick coppery liquid flooded his throat and poured into his lungs. Bracing against the cold, wet bark, he turned to face his attacker.

The menacing figure eyed him like a nefarious hunter, circling in and around, plotting the next blow. The wounded chest of the victim heaved, wheezing sharply as blood filled his lungs. The victim’s right cheekbone was exposed. Splinters of jagged bark dotted the side of his baby-smooth face and forehead, forming an arch into his skull that cut deep into the hairline. He tried calling out for help but managed only a raw, pitiful moan. The pain in his body was evident, perhaps too great to muster the strength needed to escape. His eyes darted left, then right for the ominous weapon that was bound to come at him again. He was not coherent or quick enough to track its advancement until it was far too late.

The splintered baton cut across and clipped the dupe’s right shoulder, the rounded tip striking the throat and crushing the larynx. The intense force hurled the man into an adjacent tree, the razor-sharp bark ripping at the flesh of his face, the shoulder and right arm taking the full brunt. He spun around, desperate to cover his face as another blow swung forth, snapping the tiny bones of his shielding fingers, shattering his cheek and several teeth. The man managed to grab one gloved hand flying at him, but the leather slipped free and he fell backward, landing against the unforgiving hardwood.

Terrified and in shock, the victim managed to extricate some bills, offering them out to the would-be mugger, a pitiful pittance for his life. Red shouted insidiously and cracked the bat hard across the man’s jaw, then again against the knees, bones shattering upon impact. Unable to sustain balance, the victim pitched forward, spilling the crumpled wad of cash across the damp ground.

The broken figure sprang forward in agonizing stride, a surge of adrenaline driving his broken body, wiggle-waggling across the turf like a wounded animal, Red fast on his heels. Shards of pain shot through the man’s spine and into the base of his brain, rendering him dazed and confused. He tore across the rugged terrain, blood spattering his collar and chest as he raced through the icy air toward safety. All sense of direction was lost but he ran! He squinted through blood and sweat, steering in the direction of blurry lights marking the intersection of 10th and Monroe. Clumps of grass and roots toppled him, his damaged shoulder and arm slamming into the unforgiving earth for the third or forth time. He scrambled to his feet, willing himself forward, diving headstrong though a thicket of shrubbery and thorny twigs that ripped at his flesh and gouged his eyes.

Red was not far behind and gaining. The mark never looked back at him and kept charging ahead, running toward the sounds of moving vehicles on wet pavement. He ran toward the safety of the busy intersection, toward the bright lights of the crossing and away from his attacker.

Yet, in his frantic attempt to flee, the victim missed spotting the broad concrete drainage basin that cut a swath through the south side of the park. It was dark. The blood and tears made it impossible to see the danger just a few steps away. Though far too late when he came charging upon the drop off into the ditch, he reared back in an impossible fit of rage. His leather boots clipped the edge of the cement bastion. He hurled forward into the murky abyss, arms pin-wheeling as a harrowing scream sliced through the night air.

Red saw him land solidly on the steep angled wall of concrete, wrists and elbows snapping backward on impact, shattering the bones of his forearms. His ragged body crumpled like an accordion and tumbled headlong to the bottom of the basin where his head smacked hard against the solid surface.

The killer retreated into the darkness, his job complete.