Surreal Killer

by Laurie S.

Warning: Surreal Killer contains scenes of extreme violence. If you are under 19 or pure of heart or squeamish, do not read this tale.

1

Tom Spencer stood back from the crowd gathered round the Mona Lisa, Leonardo Da Vinci's famous painting. He hated crowds and wondered why he had ever bothered to come to the Louvre. 'Obligation,' he told himself. When in Paris for the first time, one had to see all the sights.

Tom had been to the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Champs-á‰lysées. Next, it would be the Cathedral Notre Dame because it was in the general vicinity.

If Tom wanted to get close enough to see the Mona Lisa, he'd have to wait until the tour guide led her flock away. Then Tom could decide for himself if the Mona Lisa was worth all the fuss. The personal guided tour player he was carrying had run out of information on the Da Vinci work, so Tom pressed the Stop button and pushed back the earphones for a moment.

Tom noticed a beautiful young girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. She was carrying one of those audio tour players too. Tom, enthralled by her beauty, couldn't help but think of Mona Lisa, the Nat King Cole song.

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa
Men have named you
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile
Is it only 'cause you're lonely
They have blamed you
For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile

The melody and lyrics played around in Tom's head. He'd heard the song many times as a kid when his grandfather would baby-sit him. 'That beautiful girl wouldn't ever be lonely,' Tom thought as he admired her. She looked very much like a fashion model: long, lean and lovely. Attired in a flowery summer dress, her blonde hair and classic features reminded Tom a little of a very young Charlize Theron.

The girl pressed the Stop button on her audio player. Tom thought there might be an opportunity to say hello as the girl slipped her earphones off.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until the tour group moves on," Tom said, "before you'll be able to see her."

She smiled at Tom as she noticed his audio player and regarded the tall handsome young man. "Are you an art admirer? Or a tourist?"

The sightseers in the crowd snapped a few last pictures as the tour guide led them away to the next famous treasure of the Louvre.

"I'm an admirer of beauty."

She laughed as she moved closer to the painting, the dregs of the group wondering where they were headed next. "Someone told me the Mona Lisa's eyes seem to follow you no matter what angle you view her from."

Tom noted the clear feminine tone of her voice and wondered if she might be a singer or actress? "There's nothing remarkable about that," Tom said. "My eyes follow beauty too."

She grinned. "And what about her enigmatic smile?" the girl asked as she stepped forward to the security rail to get a better look. "Have you any educational tidbits to contribute about the Mona Lisa?"

"Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?" Tom talked in tune.
"Or is this your way to hide a broken heart
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there, and they die there
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?"

"Impressive. You like Nat King Cole…or Natalie Cole?"

"I like my Mona Lisa," he said, his eyes fixated on the beautiful girl.

"You need to work on the singing though. I'd have been more impressed if you had a voice like Nat."

"So would I…My name is Tom, Tom Spencer." He extended his hand.

"Kirsten Keller," she replied as they shook hands. 'Keller like the deaf, dumb and blind Helen,' she thought to herself. "Glad to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine."

"It's too bad Don't Forget the Lyrics was cancelled…You'd have had a shot at a million dollars."

"I wish. I guess I'll just have to content myself with finding the girl with a million dollar smile."

Kirsten laughed. "You certainly know how to charm a girl."

"I can charm the pants off a girl, but you're wearing a dress, unfortunately."

She almost winced at the corny line, but forced a smile. "Well, there's still hope. I always thought the expression should be 'charm the panties off a girl.'"

"I'll try to oblige."

'I hope so,' she thought to herself.

"You know, I can't help but feel that I've met you somewhere before," Tom said. "There's something very familiar about you."

"Uh huh, like I haven't heard that lame pickup line before…Like in a previous lifetime, we were soul mates." Then she laughed.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, maybe we're soul mates."

"What do you do for a living? Are you a used car salesman, politician or con artist?"

Tom laughed. "I take it you don't think I'm being sincere…Actually I'm an entrepreneur."

"That sounds very mysterious…If you were a female independent entrepreneur, that would be urban dictionary speak for hooker."

"Urban dictionary speak? You sound like a geek."

"I Google a lot. So what are ya?"

Tom's means of livelihood wasn't something he liked to discuss when he first met a girl. "A guy isn't called a hooker. Don't you mean gigolo?"

"Yes, a male whore."

"Like Deuce Bigalo: Male Gigolo," Tom snickered. "Or like that David Lee Roth song, I'm just a gigolo," Tom began crooning.

Kirsten interrupted. "No, not like David Lee Roth or Rob Schneider. It's been a long time since I saw that old Richard Gere movie American Gigolo, but I must admit he had style. You remind me of Richard Gere, at least in appearance."

"Thanks for the compliment." Tom looked very happy. "Well, I'll pretend to be Richard Gere if you'll pretend to be my Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts…Deal?"

"Done deal." Kirsten smiled.

The rest of the Louvre tour seemed entirely inconsequential. As they chatted, both Kirsten and Tom barely noticed the great works of art: the Venus de Milo, Michelangelo's Dying Slave, Johannes Vermeer's The Astronomer, Raphael's La belle jardiniá¨re, etc. One masterpiece after another–thousands and thousands. It was art overkill. Tom would've found the Louvre boring if it hadn't been for Kirsten. She was a genuine thing of beauty.

Tom's plan to see the Cathedral Notre Dame would have to wait. Kirsten Keller took priority. Romance in the City of Lights? It was as much as he could hope for.

They shared a delightful lunch in a bistro overlooking the Seine. The waiter, able to spot foreigners even while blindfolded, gave them a menu with English translations. For an appetizer, Kirsten selected the Crevettes Sauce Boursin, which is shrimp sautéed with sun-dried tomatoes, corn and leeks in a garlic, herb cream sauce. Tom wanted to try the Soupe á  l'Oignon or onion soup gratinéed with Swiss cheese. Both of the diners agreed on the entrée: Poulet au Porto. That was chicken breast tenderloin sautéed with a white port in a mushroom cream sauce, served with potatoes and asparagus. Kirsten suggested a carafe of white wine to enhance the dining experience. Tom marveled that Coca Cola cost more than wine here in Paris.

To be truthful, Tom craved the taste of a Big Mac. French food, other than French fries, wasn't for him. He tried to remember the French name for a Big Mac from that scene with John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, but he couldn't.

On the other hand, Tom was delighted that he could at least smoke in this outdoor café. Political correctness existed in North America. Maybe it hadn't spread to France yet. He wondered, when he left for Amsterdam in a few days, if he'd be able to smoke marijuana in cafes there?

When Kirsten said that she was Canadian, Tom confessed that he was posing as a Canuck while in Paris. The red maple leaf pin he wore on the breast pocket of his sport shirt was his disguise. She laughed and laughed at Tom's foolishness. She could tell he was American by his Noo Yawk tawk. Actually, he was from Long Island. Then she did a little impression of the Noo Yawk accent. Tom laughed at her dead on accuracy.

But Tom explained that his friends had told him that Americans were treated with disdain in many countries, especially in France. But, not having any knowledge of French, it seemed that his masquerade as a Canadian was unconvincing. Kirsten agreed. Most Canucks had studied French at least for a few years. And for the Quebecois, French was their mother tongue.

Ah, Tom remembered. It was Le Big-Mac.

While they ate, Kirsten laughed easily at Tom's witty remarks. Or should that have been half-witted comments? He noticed that she occasionally slapped her hand on his thigh as she laughed. She even hugged him at one point. And, at the end of the dinner, she rewarded him with a thank you kiss before heading off to the restroom.

When they walked along the Seine past the Cathedral Notre Dame, they talked of some of the movies they had seen that had been shot in Paris. When Tom brought up the Before Sunrise and Before Sunset films, he was delighted to discover that Kirsten loved those movies too. Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke seemed made for each other. They were so romantic, definitely chick flicks. Kirsten put her arm in Tom's as they strolled along the waterway, taking in the sights of Paris in the glorious sunshine. With her glamorous sunglasses, Kirsten looked very much like a Hollywood star.

And yet, there was something familiar about Kirsten. Tom couldn't put his finger on it. The feeling that he had met her before grew stronger. He just didn't know where. Yet, she said she was from Canada, so it was highly unlikely that their paths had crossed before.

Tom wished he could whisk Kirsten away to the top of the Arc de Triomphe so that Kirsten could see what he had seen from the top of that monument. The grand avenues that radiated outward from the historic Place de l'Etoile (star), renamed Place Charles de Gaulle, impressed even a jaded New Yorker.

They paused before coming to a bridge, the Pont Marie. Tom took Kirsten into his arms. They kissed. It was long and hard and full of promise of more to come.

When Tom invited Kirsten back to his hotel room for some late afternoon delight, she accepted immediately.

The Hotel Royale on Rue Saint Charles near the Eiffel Tower was something Tom had found on the Internet. While all right for his needs because he hadn't anticipated spending much time in his hotel room, Tom now wished he had chosen a ritzier hotel. C'est la vie. He hoped Kirsten wasn't caught up by appearances, status, and the class of a hotel (or lack thereof).

Strangely, when they had walked hand in hand earlier, Kirsten's hands had felt rough, not soft like Tom had expected. Kirsten had explained it by saying she did some sculpting and pottery work with clay. It was a hobby. Unfortunately, it left her hands in rather rough condition. She even had developed calluses.

When Tom inserted the key card into the slot and opened the door, Kirsten was all over him. She couldn't wait. While kissing him vigorously, she dropped her bag to the floor, threw off her sunglasses, and started to undo the buttons of Tom's cotton shirt.

Tom frantically kicked the door closed and reached for the zipper at the back of Kristen's dress as she reached down to his belt.

Backing up in the direction of the bed, Kirsten pulled Tom toward her. As she felt the mattress against her leg, she whirled Tom around and they fell onto the bed together.

Tom held Kirsten off for a moment. "While I like your enthusiasm, what's your hurry?"

She answered by forcing her lips against his. Tom tried to resist, but then gave in. Their tongues intertwined. Tom could taste the white wine that she had enjoyed earlier. There was passion in her kiss.

Tom played with the strap of her bra.

She broke the kiss. "Wait a minute," she said as she pulled back. "Let me take off my dress."

Kirsten stood for a moment, then she shucked off her shoes. Tom's eyes followed her hands as she reached up, slipping the dress off her shoulders. She did a little shimmy and the dress slid over her wide hips and fell onto the carpet.

Tom's eyes widened as he regarded Kristen's perfect form, in just her bra and silk panties. Her shapely body was taut, with very little excess fat.

"You look very beautiful."

"Thank you."

Tom sat up. Sliding his legs off the bed, he stood as he dropped his trousers to the floor. His boner put a tent in his briefs.

"I see I have your full attention," Kirsten purred.

As Tom was sliding his briefs down to his knees, revealing his upright circumcised cock, Kirsten leapt onto Tom, knocking him onto the bed. She lay on top of his fit, trim, hard muscled body.

"Why are you being so rough?"

Kirsten smiled. "You may think that we're here to make love…"

Tom gave a bewildered look.

"But I have other plans."

Kirsten raised her right leg into the air and with all the force she could muster, she brought it downward, kneeing Tom in the nuts.

"Oof!" Tom exhaled in agonizing pain.

Kirsten brought back her right hand, jumping off the bed into the air, thrusting her elbow down on Tom's throat as hard as she possibly could.

A garbled involuntary squawk emanated from the throat. Tom's hands came up to his throat, but the damage was done.

He tried to gasp for air, but it was futile. His windpipe was crushed. Tom's mouth was open, but no air could reach his lungs. 'Crazy bitch!' he tried to cry out.

Kirsten quickly shifted her position, her hands pinning Tom's flailing arms down, and she brought her shin onto Tom's throat, putting all of her body weight onto the crushed windpipe.

"My name isn't Kirsten." The sweet feminine voice had shifted to a much lower register. As Tom's flailing weakened due to a lack of oxygen, the girl reached up and removed her long blonde wig. "And I'm a guy." She laughed as shock registered in Tom's eyes. She was tempted to take off her wig cap, but practicality prevailed.

'Crazy faggot!' Tom's last desperate thoughts faded into nothingness.

Kirsten waited for some time to pass. Her hand felt for a pulse in Tom's throat. There wasn't one.

She smiled as she regarded Tom's lifeless body. She reveled in the moment. Killing was so exciting! She loved everything about how she tracked Tom Spencer down–a man she had despised since she was 14 years old. Arranging a flight to coincide with his vacation in Paris, she followed him from his hotel. When she spotted him by the entrance to the Louvre, she tracked him through the corridors until the crowds by the Mona Lisa had practically forced them together. The flirting, the witless conversation over lunch, the romantic walk by the Seine, the seduction, and then, to cap it all off, the brutal attack! She loved the attack most of all. The thrill of the kill–she loved it more than anything in her life!

Then she stood up, tearing her eyes away from the limp lifeless body, as she looked for her handbag. It was near the door where she had dropped it when she entered. Noticing her sunglasses on the floor, she opened the capacious handbag and placed the Vuarnets inside.

As she walked back toward the bed, she could see that Tom's frozen facial expression was one of horror.

Kirsten smiled as she thought of how little resistance he had provided. The revenge that he-she longed for was so sweet. For six long years she had bided her time. He had been caught totally by surprise. Perhaps it was her strength or the swiftness of the attack? Actually she wished she had had the time to show him what was under her bra and her panties–her silicone falsies and Kirsten's small cock.

Kirsten took a moment to think. She retrieved her shoes and put them on. She wondered if her footprints might give away her identity? She dismissed the thought. Police departments didn't have footprints in a database, did they?

Kirsten lowered Tom's body from the bed and then she/he placed her hands under Tom's armpits. She/he lifted the upper half of his body and dragged it over to the bathroom. Tom's legs made a trail in the carpet.

Placing Tom's body in the bathtub wasn't difficult; she was stronger than she looked. Kirsten then walked back to the bedroom to retrieve her handbag. She removed rubber gloves, a small bottle of acid and a filter mask from a gray plastic shopping bag.

Entering the bathroom, she looked for a facecloth to use.

After putting on the filter mask and the rubber gloves, she removed the cap from the glass bottle that contained the acid. She covered the open end of the bottle with the face cloth. Then she poured the acid into the facecloth. She put the bottle down on the tile floor. Then she bent over the bathtub.

She used the facecloth to swab Tom's lips, removing any traces of her lip-gloss. Some of Tom's skin seemed to melt away at the touch of the acid, but Kirsten was far from finished. She opened Tom's mouth and she poured some of the acid directly onto Tom's tongue and below it. She closed the mouth and shook Tom's head from side to side. She could hear the acid sloshing around inside his mouth. There was a hissing sound as the surface of the tongue, gums and soft tissue dissolved. Kirsten wanted to remove every shred of DNA evidence.

Once she was satisfied that her/his DNA inside the mouth was likely acidified, she/he took a careful look at Tom's fingernails. Had he scratched Kirsten? Was any of Kirsten's skin under Tom's nails?

Kirsten looked for a drinking glass or plastic cup by the sink. Finding a clean glass, she poured some of the remaining acid into the glass. Then she brought it over to Tom's body. From the handbag, Kirsten removed a nail clipper. She took the time to clip each of Tom's fingernails. She was careful to capture every nail clipping. She counted all ten in her gloved hand. Then she flushed the clippings down the toilet.

Kirsten took the time to dip each of Tom's fingers into the acid. Kirsten wanted to ensure that no DNA evidence would be found around Tom's fingernails.

Using the acid saturated face cloth, Kirsten tried wiping any of Tom's clothing that she might have touched. She wasn't that concerned about fingerprints. She actually had a fine covering of a liquid bandage on her fingertips, enough to obscure any tell-tale fingerprints. The sculpting-pottery tale was a lie to explain the hard texture of the polymer.

Back in the bedroom, Kirsten retraced her steps. She tried to look at everything in the room she could have possibly touched. Using the facecloth, she wiped the bedspread, the carpet, the doorknob, Tom's clothes, the buttons and his belt.

As for her hair, it was a blonde human hair wig. Kirsten's own hair was carefully hidden beneath the wig cap.

She gathered up the blue colored cotton/polyester bedspread in her arms and brought it into the bathroom. She placed the bedspread in the bathtub.

After putting the plug into place, Kirsten turned on both the hot and cold water in the bathtub and then she did the same at the sink.

Collecting the acid bottle, filter mask, facecloth and gloves, she stuffed them into a plastic bag and then into her handbag.

Seeing her reflection in the full-length mirror of the closet door, Kirsten paused to admire herself. She was one hot babe! She changed her pose, imagining she was a model for Victoria's Secret, showing off sexy silk panties and a C-cup bra. Although Kirsten really did have a secret–she was a he. Kirsten laughed at the thought. She could feel her cock stir at the sight of her beautiful body.

But, with the water in the bathroom overflowing, it wasn't a good time to dawdle. She held up the dress, stepping into it, she pulled it up past her hips, inserting her arms into the openings. She strained a little with the zipper at the back of the dress. Fortunately she was flexible enough to lift the zipper right to the top. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. She finger combed her hair. Her lip-gloss needed a touch up. Otherwise she was set to go. Applying the lip-gloss was a female pleasure she enjoyed. This one tasted like cherries. Any man would love to kiss those seductive lips.

A few minutes later, she was ready to leave. Kirsten was confident that she had destroyed, removed or covered up every conceivable detail of her involvement in killing Tom Spencer–except for the hotel security photos. TV series such as Dexter, Criminal Minds, CSI and Bones offered great training for serial killers.

Fortunately, when she stepped into the hallway, there weren't any passersby. Kirsten smiled. Actually, she would've enjoyed killing any witnesses who could place her at the scene of the crime. She was an adrenaline junkie. There wasn't any high quite like the one she got from killing.

2

When 14-year-old Arthur Dobriansky went to the local convenience store to pick up some groceries for his mother, he wasn't expecting any trouble.

After paying Mr. Tucker, the proprietor, for the bread, jam, sliced meat and milk, Arthur headed out the door. Unfortunately, trouble was waiting for him.

Tom Spencer and his friend Frank De Rossi sat in Spencer's new Mustang convertible, smoking cigarettes. "Hey faggot, taking groceries home to mommy? Being a good little girl?"

Arthur tried to ignore the taunting. It wasn't the first time Tom had picked on him. In fact, Arthur dreaded going to the convenience store because he never knew if Tom and Frank might be hanging around. Unfortunately, they must have just pulled up because they hadn't been there when Arthur entered the store.

Arthur reached into his canvas cargos for the earphones to his iPod and clicked the center button. The music player came to life. Any noise was better than Tom's stupid taunts.

Tom and Frank got out of the car. Both were wearing Yankees jackets and caps.

"Hey faggot. Don't pretend you didn't hear me. I'm talking to you, little girl."

That's the kind of thing that happened to Arthur frequently because he stood 5 foot 3 inches tall and weighed only 100 pounds. He was slight of build and had rather girlish facial features. He possessed doe-like eyes with long lashes, high cheekbones, a cute button nose, come kiss me lips and an innocent smile.

Arthur picked up his walking pace, hoping that the bullies would just leave him alone. But Tom and Frank ran after him. Next thing Arthur knew, Tom had knocked off the earphones from Arthur's head.

"Hey, why'd you do that for?" Arthur scrambled to pick the earphones from the sidewalk. "They'd better not be damaged."

"Or what?" Tom stood directly in front of Arthur. "You gonna run home to mommy and cry on her apron?"

Frank laughed at Arthur. "Hey squirt, while you're down there, maybe you could look for the penny that I lost here last week." Frank gave Arthur a hard shove and Arthur tumbled over, the groceries and earphones flying out of his hands.

"Shit!" Arthur looked up at the much bigger boys. "Why are you picking on me for?" Arthur noticed there was a rip in his cargo pants at the knee. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You're a faggot!" Tom announced.

"We don't like faggots." Frank flicked his cigarette into Arthur's face.

Then Tom kicked Arthur in the leg.

Arthur winced in pain. He knew he was in big trouble. After exaggerating the hurt caused by the kick, he scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could and took off running in the direction of his house.

"You little faker."

He could hear the bigger boys running after him. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. Arthur ran in between parked cars and then hugged the row of cars momentarily until he could see if there was any traffic. Then he dashed across the street hoping his pursuers might get run over. But no such luck.

Between the houses ahead of him, there was an open gate. Maybe if he could reach the gate before Frank and Tom, he could lock the gate and he could escape through the backyard. Arthur ran as fast as he could. When he reached the gate, he reached for the top of it and swung it closed, and then latched it as quickly as he could.

"Fuck!" Tom shouted as he pounded on the high wooden gate.

"I'll go around the next house," Frank yelled.

Arthur turned and began running again. Down the narrow passageway between the houses, into the backyard, past the garage and into the alleyway.

Frank and Tom would be on Arthur's tail any moment. He turned up the alleyway in the direction of home.

Frank emerged between two garages. Arthur didn't look back, but Frank was in hot pursuit. Arthur kept running but could hear Frank's footsteps getting closer and closer.

"Got'cha!" Frank dove and tackled Arthur. Arthur fell forward. He put out his arms to break the fall, but the weight and momentum of Frank crushed Arthur into the pavement. Then Arthur's face bounced up from the cement. There was a frightful cracking sound as his jaw broke. A red scrape mark covered his chin.

He struggled to escape from Frank's grasp, but the much bigger teenager had him pinned.

Other frantic footsteps could be heard approaching. Then Tom's ugly mug was in Arthur's face. "For making us run after you, squirt, you're really gonna get it now."

Tom punched Arthur as hard as he could. His fist dealt Arthur a devastating blow directly to the teeth. It felt so good the first time; he punched him again to see if it would feel just as good the second time. Once more! Again and again. Arthur's face became Tom's personal punching bag. Over and over again, Tom drove his massive fist into the faggot's face.

While Tom made mincemeat out of Arthur's face, Frank worked over the kid's scrawny body, pounding on his stomach, ribs and chest. With the double beating, the kid quickly lost consciousness. It was all over within two or three minutes.

When the big guys got up, Arthur's face was a bloody pulp. Frank gave a final kick to the side of Arthur's body, but the kid was out cold.

As Frank and Tom walked away, they gave each other high fives. The faggot wouldn't bother anyone ever again.

3

When Arthur emerged from his coma a week later, he felt terrible. He ached everywhere. He could barely see anything. His eyes were practically swollen shut. An IV was stuck in his arm. His whole body was one massive bruise. He thought something had been inserted into his penis.

He had a broken jaw, a broken orbital bone beneath his left eye, a broken nose, two broken ribs, internal bleeding, a broken wrist, two broken fingers on his right hand, and scrapes on his knees, elbows and chin.

When a nurse made her rounds, she noticed Arthur blinking. She notified the doctor and Arthur's mom and dad were called.

A few hours later, when Arthur awoke from his uncomfortable sleep, there were tears in his mom's eyes. His father looked worried, then relieved that he seemed to recognize them. His older sister Lydia smiled. Arthur tried to return the smile, but pain was the consequence of the attempt. Arthur tried to sit up, but felt so weak that he couldn't even manage that.

He tried to speak. Nothing but a few unintelligible grunts emerged from his mouth.

His jaw hurt. He tried to push his tongue forward, but he couldn't feel his front teeth! They were missing. Had they been knocked out?

The good news was that he was alive. Also, there was a good chance that he could make a full recovery. It was touch and go for a while, but now that he was out of the coma, the prognosis was good. Although there was some bruising in his internal organs, in time they would heal. In addition, his father being an airline pilot, the medical insurance covered the whole hospital ordeal.

The first food that he was able to swallow was a soup broth. Gradually the hospital food would become a little more substantial, but since his jaw was wired shut, the only food he could take was through a straw. Fortunately, there was a large gap in his front teeth. As he gained strength, he could progress to mush, as he aptly called it.

It was at that time, he received his first visit from police officers. The young female officer, Carrie Dale, asked if he could remember anything about the attack.

Arthur thought the interview was being conducted in slow motion. It felt so surreal. He practically had to spit out the words. It felt strange having no front teeth and he wondered if and when he'd get dentures.

However, in answering the officer's questions, Arthur wondered about the consequences. If he fingered Tom Spencer and Frank De Rossi, he was afraid they'd kill him if they ever got the chance.

"Take your time," she said. "You were at a convenience store. You were walking home. Somebody attacked you. Do you remember being at the store?"

"No." Arthur lied.

"The convenience store owner, Mr. Tucker, remembers seeing a black Mustang convertible in front of his store at the time you were beaten up." Officer Dale pulled out two photos from an envelope and showed them to Arthur. The first was of Tom Spencer. "The car belongs to this person."

Arthur looked at the photo. "I don't know. I'm not sure."

Frank De Rossi's photo was next.

"I don't remember anything."

The police officer shook her head. "That's unfortunate." She felt so sorry that the perpetrators wouldn't be brought to justice. The poor kid was lucky to be alive.

Carrie Dale pulled out a card from her pocket. "Please give me a call if you remember anything." Then she got up from the chair beside the bed and left the hospital room quietly. The doctor had warned her that with the severe beating Arthur had received, the concussion and resultant coma, a loss of memory was quite possible.

Nevertheless, Arthur was confident they would be brought to justice. For him, the only fit punishment for Tom and Frank was to be beaten to death. And Arthur was adamant that he'd be the one to do it.

Recovery was a long slow process. After three weeks in the hospital, Arthur returned home. It was great to be able to enjoy his mother's wonderful Ukrainian home cooking once again. He was in perogi heaven.

However, physiotherapy would mean that Arthur would return to the hospital occasionally. Once the cast on the wrist was removed, Arthur needed to strengthen the wrist. Fortunately, his mother was able to rearrange her blocks of time as a flight attendant, so she was able to drive him in for physio whenever it was scheduled. The wrist exercises weren't too strenuous. At first, there was a lot of pain in just bending the wrist. But by using rubber bands and light weights, Arthur was able to regain full flexibility of the wrist.

The facial lacerations had healed pretty well. And when the fractured jaw healed, the wires were removed. Arthur was once more able to eat solid food, although he still needed to have dental work done to replace his front teeth.

After another month went by and Arthur felt confident that the range of motion in his jaw had returned to normal, he saw the dentist. In the first visit, an X-ray was taken and a mold was made for the missing upper and lower incisors. A week later, it was expensive bridgework. Then came the fitting of prosthetics for the upper and lower front teeth. His bite felt almost as good as his old teeth. As a bonus, a great smile replaced Arthur's formerly ordinary smile. The new perfect false teeth looked like they belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

However, whenever Arthur looked in the mirror, he thought there was something wrong with his nose. For one thing, it was crooked. And at the end of his nose, there was a small piece of cartilage that was loose. He hated that he could move it and cause it to make a clicking sound.

His parents took young Arthur to a plastic surgeon, a Doctor Whelan. Arthur was delighted by the options that were explained to him. No work was needed on the orbital bone. It was healing very well. As for the nose, the doctor could break his nose again to straighten it. He could remove the loose piece of cartilage at the end of his nose. However, the surgeon was concerned that removal of the little piece of cartilage might give Arthur an upturned nose. It might look rather feminine. Arthur insisted that he wanted that loose tiny piece removed. He hated it.

In addition, the plastic surgeon said that the traces of the facial lacerations from his beating could be diminished by laser therapy. Arthur thought that would be great!

A week after the nose procedure and laser therapy, when the doctor removed the bandages, Arthur was puzzled by the result. When he looked in the mirror at the new feminine nose, the fresh tender skin, the dazzling front teeth and the healed jawbone, he could see potential. Admittedly, there was some swelling. The skin looked a little red and raw, but Doctor Whelan was enthusiastic. He assured Arthur the redness would disappear, the swelling would subside, and he'd look as handsome as a matinee idol.

Finally, after all the pain and recovery, Arthur went to a psychiatrist to see how he was coping with the trauma. When Arthur said he didn't remember anything from the beating, the session focused on keeping a positive attitude to get through all the possible medical complications.

Arthur insisted on changing schools so that he would never have to face Tom Spencer or Frank De Rossi. Arthur never returned to the convenience store where he had been beaten up. His parents understood why. Under the circumstances, he was lucky to be alive.

However, Arthur knew where Tom Spencer and Frank De Rossi lived. He wanted to keep track, at a distance, so when the opportunity arose, he could extract his revenge.

As Arthur progressed through high school, he expressed an interest in extra-curricular activities. He joined the archery club. He loved the self-discipline and calmness the sport required. When the coach suggested he read Zen in the Art of Archery, Arthur found it intriguing. The ideas were simple and clear. If he practiced religiously, the body would develop a muscle memory. Even complex motions would come naturally and effortlessly without much thought.

Gaining confidence, Arthur tried out for the wrestling team. His lack of weight wasn't a problem because he only competed against guys in his own weight class. He acquired a reputation for being a tough competitor. He dished out punishment more often than he received it.

His academic performance improved too. His brush with death made Arthur a more focused student. Arthur always had the smarts, but never really worked that hard because it came easily to him. He felt that he had a second chance at life. He was going to take advantage.

Outside of school, Arthur joined a karate club. He wanted to learn how to defend himself. Within a month, he had established himself as somebody not to be trifled with. He seemed to enjoy dishing out punishment. And he had an unusually high pain threshold.

Liking karate more than wrestling, Arthur decided to quit the wrestling team. Karate seemed better suited to the ultimate purpose he had in mind. Also, Arthur didn't want to get too muscular. To be successful in wrestling, strength was a necessity. Big muscles helped.

Arthur was able to persuade his Uncle Eugene to take him to the gun club so that he could learn how to shoot. It seemed from the very first outing that Arthur was a natural. Hitting the bull's eye was easy. He progressed from pistols to rifles without difficulty. He seemed fascinated by guns and rifles. They became an obsession to him.

All the while Arthur took an interest in developing his self-defense and shooting skills, he had a hard to explain fascination with beauty. For some unknown reason, he became enthralled by the idea that an ordinary looking man, through the skilled application of makeup, could be transformed into a beautiful girl. He found a site called YouTube on the Internet. Here he could find videos of boys transforming into girls. Men becoming women. Not just a man wearing a dress, but transsexuals too who altered their bodies with hormones and operations to change their features so that they looked like beautiful women.

Arthur found websites with fictional stories about transgendered characters: Nifty, Literotica, Reluctant Press, Crystal's Storysite, Mask Fiction, Fictionmania and more.

When the rest of his family was away one afternoon shopping in Manhattan, he took the opportunity to try on some of his sister's clothes and makeup. He also borrowed one of mom's wigs. Following some of the lessons he learned from YouTube, he was delighted to find that when he applied the makeup, donned the padding, clothing, jewelry, and wig, he looked just like a beautiful girl!

To help further his female illusion skills, Arthur thought if he could learn to act, he'd be even more convincing. So he tried out for the Drama Club. He was able to take part in several theatrical productions during his time in high school. Pretending to be someone else was great fun.

By the time Arthur finished high school, he was a very capable fighter and sharpshooter. In addition, he was skilled at makeup and the transformation process and, when in drag, he could fool everybody into thinking he was a girl. Now he was ready to take revenge upon Tom and Frank. It was just a matter of time.

4

The next day, on board a Boeing 737 at Charles de Gaulle Airport, Arthur Dobriansky picked up a copy of a Paris newspaper.

Quickly he flipped through the paper looking for anything about a murder. Unfortunately, Arthur's French wasn't very good. However, on the front page of the local news section was a photo of Tom Spencer and a mysterious blonde girl wearing sunglasses as they entered the Hotel Royale.

Arthur tried translating the French, although he wished he had a better working knowledge of the language.

The French police are investigating the murder of American visitor Tom Spencer. He was brutally beaten to death in his room at the Hotel Royale.

A blonde girl, identity unknown, was seen in the company of Mr. Spencer, prior to his murder.

Security photos at the Hotel Royale show that the couple entered together. However, she left the hotel an hour later by herself.

A hotel worker found the Mr. Spencer's body in the flooded hotel room. The face of Mr. Spencer was mutilated by application of acid. The forensic department is combing through the hotel room for evidence, but water damage is complicating matters.

As the passengers began boarding, Arthur set down the newspaper back in the rack where reading materials were stored pre-flight. As a flight attendant for American Airlines, his task at the moment was to greet the passengers. Those needing assistance boarded first. He helped some of the elderly to their seats.

The plastered on greeting smile came easily to him. His first murder had gone so smoothly. He was exhilarated.

Arthur was mildly concerned that he might not come back to France again. Should he risk being arrested? He was confident that he hadn't left any evidence behind. Besides, Tom Spencer deserved what he got. He had a fighting chance against a weaker opponent. This time, unlike the first encounter when he was 14, it wasn't two against one.

When the Boeing 737 lifted into the air, Arthur felt some measure of relief. After all, Tom Spencer was Arthur's first kill.

Now he was going to take his time planning the death of Frank De Rossi.

5

As Tom Spencer's body was being carried out of the church, Frank De Rossi found himself in a state of disbelief. His best buddy, Tom Spencer, was dead at the age of 23.

Here Frank was–a pallbearer for his best friend. It just couldn't be.

The circumstances were so bizarre. Who would've killed him and mutilated his face with acid? In Paris? The details were shocking. And the police suspected a woman of beating Tom to death? Unbelievable! 'Those damn frogs!' he thought to himself. 'Those incompetent imbeciles didn't have a clue!'

When Frank looked around the front doorsteps of the church as the coffin was being loaded into the hearse, he felt disappointed that there were so few people at the funeral. Mainly it was just Tom's family. Hardly anyone else. Frank thought the small crowd might be due to the fact that Tom was a drug dealer. Other than Frank, Tom didn't have any work associates. And Tom's clients probably didn't want to take the chance that the police would want to see who would show up at a drug dealer's funeral.

Tom first got into drugs back in high school. One day, in the school cafeteria, he got into a discussion about drugs with his schoolmates. He asked if they had tried drugs? A few said they had. Did they like it? Yeah, of course. Which ones? Where did they buy the drugs? The usual questions.

The other guys put him in touch with 'the man'–a paisano named Tony Zambrone. A meeting was arranged after school. Tom bought a dime bag of marijuana. And he liked it. A few weeks later, he progressed to Ecstasy and thought that was great.

But drugs were expensive. And Tony, more or less, dictated the price. Then Tom saw the light. Wouldn't it be better to sell drugs instead of being just another kid hooked on drugs? However, Tony wasn't likely to let some buttagots take over. Undeterred, Tom demonstrated his street smarts.

Somehow the school administration got an anonymous tip that Tony Zambrone was selling drugs. When they searched his locker, they found Tony's stash of marijuana, Ecstasy and steroids. The police were brought in. Basically, the school was searched up-down inside-out and all around. Other students were questioned. Some of them ratted him out. Tony was arrested and expelled from school.

That's when Tom stepped up. Tossing in a little money, he asked Tony to introduce him to the supplier, who turned out to be a Colombian named Jorge Carvajal. And that's how Tom became 'the new man.'

Marijuana was the most popular drug, although some of the kids loved E as well. If a client wanted some other more exotic drug, that was no problem. Tom's supplier could get him anything and there was a huge demand. Lots of kids wanted to space out on heroin, coke, crack, crystal meth, and PCP. The jocks wanted to pump themselves up on steroids. The hard up creeps wanted date rape drugs like Rohypnol and GHB. Tom's supplier could even get pharmaceuticals like morphine, codeine, methadone, Vicodin or Percodan. Around the school, Tom was 'the man' for all seasons.

Cell phones were a real boon to Tom's burgeoning business. He'd get a text message from a buyer, even when Tom was sitting in a classroom. They'd arrange to meet in a washroom or at lunch or after school. Hell, he even conducted drug deals in the hallways when teachers were standing a few feet away. They were clueless. Business wasn't just good, it was great. The money rolled in. Drug dealing sure beat studying or working. It allowed Tom to buy a car when he was 17.

Tom was a free spirit. He loved to go cruising in his Mustang convertible and pick up chicks. 'Man, he really knew how to party too,' Frank thought. Booze was no problem either. Swapping booze for drugs was a natural. Everybody wanted Tom at their party. 'Hell, he was the party,' Frank thought. 'But now he's dead. What was that line from a Billy Joel song? Only the good die young…So true.'

Tom and Frank were partners in the business too. Frank was Tom's enforcer. Nobody ever shortchanged Tom because Frank would bring along his trusty baseball bat and wreck a few knees. Or pound on a few hands and wrists.

One thing Frank loved about Tom was that he had balls. Big balls. He'd try anything at least once. He was fearless. Frank remembered the time back in high school they had used Rohypnol, the date rape drug. They got a cheerleader drunk at a party. Actually, she wasn't really drunk. They'd found an empty bedroom at the party and had their way with the babe. What a great body! They fucked her senseless. But it wasn't really rape. She never said no. What a laugh! The best thing was she couldn't really recall anything about being fucked. Sales for Rohypnol really skyrocketed after that. Yeah, he had had great times with Tom his best bud. He'd be sorely missed.

After high school, Tom didn't really need to go to college. Making money wasn't a problem. The demand for drugs was unlikely to dry up even in a bad economy.

Since then, Tom and Frank had had some wild times at the sports bars. That was one thing they shared in common–a huge interest in sports. They'd go to Yankees games together, down to the Garden to see the Knicks and Rangers, or over to the Meadowlands. Tom liked the Giants whereas Frank liked the Jets. They both enjoyed betting on the NFL games. Oh, and they liked watching the games on TV at Hooter's: sexy girls, good beer, great times! Frank would miss Tom a hell of a lot.

Plus they often got high together. The drugs were plentiful. Life was sweet. Yeah, Tom was his best friend ever.

'Why oh why did Tom have to take a break from work and fly to Europe? It was supposed to be a carefree vacation–his big European adventure.' Frank thought. 'He was to start in Paris. Then it was on to Amsterdam, but unfortunately, it never got that far.'

When the hearse pulled away from the church, Frank's wife Jane put her arms around him. She hugged Frank tightly and kissed him on the cheek.

6

A year later, Frank's business was really flourishing. He had taken over all of Tom's clientele. He could spare some time off for sex, drugs, booze and gambling.

Welcome to that decadent sin city Las Vegas, Nevada: where the hookers make happy and so do the johns.

The gambling tables at the Belfountain Casino were extremely busy. An indefinable excitement exists in all casinos. It's a combination of color, sounds, odors, people, hope, desperation and greed. The Belfountain, so named because of its dazzling water fountain show outside amidst the desert's scorching sun, was one of Vegas' classier casinos. The plush interior was designed to please the senses. The upscale hotel/casino appealed to a classier crowd. Or at least those who pretended they were classier for a few days.

Sitting in his usual third base position, Frank De Rossi had had a good start. It seemed that everyone sitting at the Blackjack table knew the game well. It appeared to Frank that all the players were counting cards.

When the players were dealt a lot of face cards, it seemed that everyone at the table decreased the size of their bets for the next hand. Whenever a lot of low cards came out, the players increased their bets. Because low cards helped the dealer stay under 21, the more that came out, the better the chance that on the next hand the dealer would go over 21.

Blackjack or Twenty-one was a simple game. All players were dealt two cards face up, except the dealer. The dealer had one card up and one card down.

The idea was to get to as close to 21 without busting. If you went over 21, you lost. The dealer collected your bet immediately. The dealer was required to keep taking cards until a count of 17. An ace and a face card was the best hand: Blackjack. It paid off at 3:2 odds. A tie was called a push. Nobody made money.

When the dealer paused to shuffle the deck, the person sitting beside Frank got up and left the table. Frank got off his seat to stretch for a moment. He decided not to leave this table. He was up a bunch. He thought the dealer was having some bad luck. Frank hoped that his good fortune would continue.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, this wonderful beautiful babe came by Frank's Blackjack table. She was a brunette with the body of a goddess. When she walked up, everybody at Frank's table and the nearby tables stopped what they were doing to have a look at the gorgeous gams on that babe! She wore a short navy skirt, a white blouse, and a light blue tailored jacket. The stilettos of her high heels must have been 4-5 inches. How the hell she ever walked on them was a mystery.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked in a sweet sounding voice

Frank looked at the faces of the other guys around the table. Their mouths were open in amazement as they shrugged or shook their heads.

"No, I think he just left."

"Good," she said. "It's busy here tonight, isn't it?"

As she sat down, Frank couldn't help but take a peek at her fabulous cleavage. Her breasts strained to unbutton the third button of her silk blouse. The top two were undone. Frank closed his eyes for a moment, reminding himself that he was still married–at least on paper. The love seemed to have disappeared a while ago. "Yeah, hard to get a seat, unless you want to sit at the high stakes table?" Something else was getting hard too.

"No, I'm a beginner."

"Well if you need advice, I'd be happy to help."

Frank looked at those beautiful clear blue eyes–an unusual combination with the long wavy brown hair that framed her face perfectly. The hairstyle reminded him of sexy Stana Katic, on the TV cop show Castle. Only Amy was younger and sexier. The face–he couldn't decide. Maybe a little Charlize Theron?

She had high model's cheekbones. Her nose was pert and upturned. She had perfect gleaming white teeth. What a beautiful smile!

"Thanks. By the way, my name is Amy Proctor," she said as she extended her hand.

"Frank De Rossi." They shook hands. "Are you in Vegas for the first time?"

"Yes, I'm a virgin so to speak."

The guys at the table snickered. She was god's gift to man. Even though she was young, maybe twenty-one, the legal drinking age, nobody thought she was still a virgin.

"You've come to the right place to be corrupted."

The balding portly man with the bad breath sitting on the other side of Amy spoke up. "You know what they say, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' "

Frank took a last swig of his Jack Daniel's. 'What a cheese ball line? Couldn't he come up with anythin' original?'

The girl looked at Frank with her angel like baby blues. "Corrupted? Me?"

"Yeah, why not you?"

A waitress wearing a short, sexy flashy red dress came to take the drink orders. Frank ordered another Jack Daniel's whisky with ice. "Keep 'em coming darlin'."

The dealer had completed the six-deck shuffle; she offered the 'cheese ball' the plastic yellow card to cut the deck. The cards were in the shoe.

"Place your bets please."

Most of the players put a $10 chip on the betting line.

As the cards were dealt face up, Amy was fascinated by how quickly the cards flew out of the shoe.

Frank focused on the cards, keeping a running count.

Amy reached forward to pick up her cards.

"Stop Amy. Don't touch the cards."

"That's right," the dealer said. She was attired smartly in a white blouse and red vest and was very officious in her manner. "We don't want the players to touch the cards."

"Casinos think cheaters might mark the cards."

"Oh, I didn't know." Amy's expression was one of contrition.

The dealer looked at the player sitting at 'first base.' He had a 6 and a 2, a total of 8. The dealer's up card was a 9. The player pulled his right hand forward in a sweeping motion. "Hit please."

The dealer flipped over a 10. The player gave a sweep away motion with his right hand. "I'll stay." If he took a hit at 18, he'd likely go bust. However, if the dealer's down card was a face card, she'd have 19 and the player would lose.

The next player had two face cards. He gave the sweep away motion, indicating he'd stand with 20.

The third player had a 6 and a 9. He pulled his hand forward for a hit. Out came a 10. Bust. The dealer quickly took away his bet.

The cheese ball went bust too.

When it came to Amy's turn, she had two face cards. "I guess I should stay, huh?"

"Yeah, good call," Frank said. "You have to give that sweep away hand signal for the eye in the sky." Frank looked up for a moment. "There are cameras directly above the table so they can catch the cheaters."

"If there are disputes," the dealer began, "the video can be checked. With all the noise in a casino, verbal signals are no good."

"Here," Frank said as he reached into his pants pocket for his wallet. He extracted a small information card. He had picked it up at a casino gift shop the first time he had come to Vegas about two years ago. It was a chart that laid out the basic strategy: what decisions a player should make depending on the player's total and the dealer's up card. "This should help you."

"Thanks Frank." Amy gave Frank's knee a squeeze below table level. "You're my knight in shining armor."

"Anything to help a damsel in distress."

With Frank's help, Amy won her first three hands.

When the waitress came by with the drinks, Amy reached down to her handbag to extract some more money so that she could increase the size of her bets.

"What do you carry in that bag?" Frank asked. "It's packed."

"Just the essentials."

The waitress placed the whisky glass on a coaster beside Frank while Amy hid a little vial in her left hand.

As Frank removed a chip from his large stack and turned to give it to the waitress, Amy casually placed her left hand over Frank's refreshed glass and spilled the vial contents into it.

"Oh," Amy called out, waving her right hand at the server. "Could I please get a soft drink?"

"Yes. What would you like?"

"Just a Coke, please."

"Certainly."

"Thanks." Amy smiled.

"Just a Coke?" Frank asked. "You sure you don't want anything stronger?"

"I heard that the casinos ply the players with free drinks so that they'll play badly."

"That's true. But gambling's more fun when you're a little tipsy."

"Oh, I'm sure there are other ways to have fun," Amy said with a wink as she patted Frank on the upper thigh.

'A virgin my foot,' Frank thought.

"Besides, I just turned 21." Amy looked so innocent. "I hate being carded all the time. So if I stick to soft drinks, there's no need to check whether it's legal for me." The skirt, blouse and tailored jacket was an attempt to look more mature.

"Didn't you ever use fake I.D.?"

"What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me."

Amy laughed.

About a half hour later, Frank wasn't feeling so good. He was having trouble concentrating. Suddenly the cards were turning against him. He was making bad decisions. He felt a little woozy.

"Frank, are you feelin' all right?" Amy asked with motherly concern. "Maybe we should take a break." Amy patted Frank on the thigh beneath the table.

"That might be a good idea." Frank reached for his whisky.

Amy placed her hand over top of it. "That might NOT be a good idea, Frank. You've had enough."

Frank nodded.

Amy looked at the dealer. "I guess we'll take a break here."

"Sure. I'll convert his small chips for bigger value chips. It'll be easier to carry."

"Thanks hon."

After the chip exchange, Amy helped Frank up. They walked past other table games and past rows of one-armed bandits. Lots of people, young and old, kept feeding the slot machines.

Eventually Amy and Frank stood in line at the Cashier's cage.

Amy took care of her chips first. Then it was Frank's turn.

There was relief on Amy's face as a large wad of bills was handed to Frank: $1575 to be precise. She wondered how much money Frank had started with.

Frank was getting progressively worse. His eyes were bloodshot and he was having trouble even managing to stand up.

"You have a room here, don't you?"

"Yes, suite 1123…I think that was…the number." Frank's speech was getting slower and some of the words were slurred. "The card's…in my wallet."

"I think we should go up to your room, don't you?"

Frank managed a slow, drowsy nod.

Frank leaned on Amy for support. He was much heavier than Amy, although with her 5 inch heels, she matched Frank's height of 6 feet 2 inches.

Amy wanted to leave the casino and get to the elevators that would take her to the guest suites, but she wasn't sure where they were. Once a guest was in a casino, it seemed the casino wanted the wanderer to stick around to gamble. It was a labyrinth–Amy and Frank were rats in a maze. There were precious few signs indicating where the elevators were located. It reminded Amy of the last lines of the Eagles song Hotel California:

You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!

Frustrated, Amy spotted a sweeper, one of the casino workers, and asked him where the hotel portion of the Belfountain was located. He pointed to an area beyond the rows of slot machines. After thanking him, Amy resigned herself to some more heavy lifting and pointed Frank in the general direction.

"Frank, are you all right?"

Frank nodded.

"I hope you can make it." She sounded so sweet and encouraging. Then, with Amy's assistance, Frank draped his arm around her shoulder and they trudged onward.

Sure enough, beyond the ten rows of slot machines, it was like the Biblical parting of the Red Sea: The Promised Land.

The carpeting transitioned into shiny granite.

A family of vacationers stood watching the floor numbers blink above the elevator doors.

A ping sounded and the doors opened. Amy let the family of five get on first. Then with Frank's arm over her shoulder, she helped him in.

"Floor?" the father asked.

"Eleven please."

When the elevator door closed, Amy knew that there was a camera recording everything.

While she was contemplating what she was about to do, Amy took comfort in her disguise. She knew that all the casinos had facial recognition software. It was a risk she was willing to take.

When the elevator stopped at the eleventh floor, she helped Frank stumble out. He wasn't saying very much at all. His eyes had a glazed look. Rohypnol tended to do that to its victims.

"What a shame he's drunk," the mother said as the elevator doors closed.

Amy looked at the brass plaques showing the room number ranges. Room 1123 was to the left.

She practically had to drag Frank's 220-pound frame down the hallway.

At the doorway, she reached into Frank's pocket for the wallet. After extracting the key card, she inserted it into the door slot. The light turned green. She let go of Frank's body for a moment as she struggled to turn the door handle. As the door swung open, Frank's body fell into the room. Amy closed the door with relief.

After taking out the wad of money from Frank's wallet and sticking it into her purse inside the handbag, she tossed Frank's wallet onto the bed.

Then she grabbed Frank's body under the armpits. Stepping backwards in those 5-inch heels, she dragged his limp body over to the bed.

Amy sat him up against the side of the bed. "Did you have fun tonight, Frank? Did you win a lot of money? Was it a good night at the Blackjack tables?"

Frank's head sort of moved from side to side. The eyes were glazed over. Amy wondered how much his mind was registering?

She stopped for a moment, as if remembering a detail she needed to take care of. The beautiful babe picked up the remote from the desk and clicked on the TV. Seconds later, a hotel information channel came onto the screen. She selected the ESPN channel and turned up the volume a bit. A football game was on. "You like to bet on football, don't you Frankie? We need a little background noise just in case things get noisy in here…Now, where was I?"

Frank was having a rather hazy surreal dream. The beautiful girl wasn't smiling any more. In addition, there was something wrong with her voice.

"Oh, before I forget. I should tell you that my real name isn't Amy. Do you remember the little kid you beat up and almost killed because you and Tom didn't like faggots? Does that ring a bell?"

Amy stepped away from the bed and went over to the desk where she had placed her handbag. She pulled out a billfold that contained identity cards and photos. She extracted two photos and then she placed the billfold in her bag.

She turned and stepped to the side of the bed, shoving one of the small photos into Frank's face. She/he said in a male voice, "Do you remember this cute little kid? The one you chased outside Tucker's convenience store seven years ago? The one who ended up in a coma for a week? Well, I'm that kid–Arthur Dobriansky."

Frank's bad dream was getting worse. "The faggot," Frank mumbled faintly.

"Yeah, that's right," Amy/Arthur said with delight. "I'm so happy that you remembered me after all these years."

Amy removed her light blue tailored jacket and hung it over a chair. Then she stood in front of Frank as she undid the buttons. "Did you want to see my hooters, Frank?" Her voice sounded high once again. She removed the blouse and placed it on the chair. "They're lovely, big, firm and squeezably delightful." She reached behind her back to undo her flesh tone bra. With the snaps undone, she held the bra in place for a moment. "Do you want to see my tits, Frank?"

Frank's glazed look was answer enough.

She raised the bra high above her head, exposing the D-cup silicone breasts glued to her chest. "They're the best hooters money can buy. Do you like them Frank?" She wiggled her body and the silicone falsies jiggled from side to side. "Maybe I should get tassels or stripper's pasties? What do you think?"

Frank appeared to shake his head, but it was hard to tell. Maybe it was a cross between a nod and a shake?

Amy placed the bra on top of the blouse and jacket. Then she thought for a moment. "You know, this could get messy. I think I should remove all my clothing so that it doesn't get dirty…Enjoy the show Frank."

Amy's hands reached for the zipper at her waist and pulled it down. She did a little shimmy and the skirt fell to the floor. She turned around and pushed her rear end out as she placed the skirt on the chair. "Do you like my booty, Frank? Do you think it's sexy? Yes? No?"

"Faggot," Frank mumbled.

"Oh, I need to get something before we begin the next portion of the festivities, Frank." Amy reached into her handbag and came out with a piece of duct tape. It wasn't a full roll. Instead it was wrapped around a plastic makeup case. Then she stepped into the bathroom for a moment to grab a facecloth.

As she tore a strip of duct tape off, she returned to the bedside with an exaggerated pout on her face. "I'm afraid the fun part of the show is over for you, Frank." She stuffed the facecloth into Frank's mouth.

Frank took a wild swing at her. She dodged it easily and smacked him hard across the face.

Before he could recover, she slapped the tape over his mouth to hold the gag in place. "Comfortable? No?"

Frank swung another roundhouse right, but Amy blocked it easily.

"I hope you don't choke; that would spoil all the fun."

Amy put her hands on her hips, arms akimbo.

"I suppose you're just dying to see my cock, aren't you Frankie? Well, I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

Frank's eyes seemed to bug out as Amy started to remove Frank's shirt. "Oh, sorry, didn't mean to rip it...I lied, I did mean to tear it off you." She dropped the shredded shirt onto the bed. "Now don't struggle too much, Frank. I just need to take off your pants. If you promise not to struggle, I won't whip you with your own leather belt." Amy cackled evilly. "I guess this is what it feels like to be a sadomasochist."

While Amy was undoing the belt and the pants' zipper, Frank made another attempt to defend himself. He tried grabbing hold of Amy. A swift knee to the face smashed into Frank's nose. "Oh Frankie Wanky, I'm so sorry, but you shouldn't have done that." Frank was dazed. Blood dripped from his swollen schnozzola. "I seem to remember years ago Arthur Dobriansky ended up with a broken nose too."

Amy started to tug at the bottoms of Frank's pant legs. With a bit of struggle and raising of Frank's bum off the floor, she pulled his pants off at long last.

"Boxers I see. So you like to hang free and easy…Now the piece de resistance." Again, Amy struggled to lift up Frank's rear end. "Ah hell, I'll just rip them off."

Frank's eyes bugged out again as Amy ripped the shorts to pieces. "See Frank, no big deal. Gee, and I thought my weenie was small…You're married, aren't you Frank? I heard your wife is splitting. No wonder she wants a divorce."

There was no comment from Frank because his mouth was taped shut.

"Now that I've seen yours, I suppose you want to see mine." Amy dug her thumbs under the waistband of her panties at her hips. She turned her ass cheeks coyly to Frank. Slowly she tugged the smooth shiny silk material lower and lower. Then she turned to face him. Her small cock peeked out above her panty top. "Do you like cock, my wee Frank'n furter?" Amy laughed. She let her panty fall to the floor. She wiggled her butt in Frank's face and then let her cock jiggle around too.

Then she laughed as she picked up the panty and the rest of her clothes from the chair. She stepped over to the closet and hung up her clothes. She didn't want to get blood all over the clothes.

Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, she admired her body for a moment. Her long, shapely legs atop the 5-inch stilettos looked marvelous. Her 4-inch cock looked so cute. Her wide womanly hips and taut trim waist would've made any woman envious. Her D-cup silicone falsies, had they been real, would've been Playboy Playmate material. The face of an angelic fashion model, beautiful blue eyes, a pert nose, dazzling smile, and long wavy brunette hair completed the fantasy ensemble. Arthur got hard looking at 'Amy' in the mirror.

Stepping back toward Frank, Amy's expression took on a touch of sadness although Arthur's cock extended 7-inches straight out.

"What did you call me earlier, a damsel in distress? I played you like a Stradivarius violin. Men can't help but try to give aid to a helpless beautiful girl." Arthur laughed. "You had absolutely no clue that I was a guy, did you?" He-she said in his natural voice again. "A little pat on the thigh," Amy cooed, "a little flattery, laughing at your lame tired witticisms–I enjoyed it very much. Frankie, the pleasure was all mine."

Frank tried to speak but the facecloth and the tape wouldn't allow it.

"Frank, unfortunately, in everyone's lives, a little rain must fall…In this case, the rain might have a red color."

She moved toward Frank, lifted up her right leg, and stomped down as hard as she could onto Frankie's crotch.

Frank's bum almost leapt off the carpet as a knee jerk reaction. And he seemed to want to upchuck too.

"Now Frankie, be careful. Don't vomit," Amy said as she tried to wipe some of the blood and scrotal tissue from the stiletto onto the brown carpet. "We wouldn't want you to choke to death." The sac seemed determined to stick to her spiked heel. She dragged the shoe over the carpet several more times trying to scrape off the detritus.

On the TV, the Jets had just scored a touchdown. The crowd roared its approval

Amy seemed a little disappointed. She expected that Frank would be on the floor writhing in agony, but the Rohypnol might've dulled his pain receptors.

"As I remember it, you gave me quite a pounding on my stomach, ribs and chest." She stood beside her handbag. She removed a pair of rubber gloves. "Now this is just a precaution because I don't want to leave my DNA material behind because I hear the Las Vegas CSI crew is pretty damn good."

Amy placed a plastic bag on the carpet and got down on her knees beside Frank. "I am a black belt in karate Frank. That's bad news for you." Amy concentrated for a moment and took a deep breath. She fired her right hand directly into the chest.

Frank tried to cover up.

With her left hand, Amy punched directly into the ribs. Then, pulling away one of Frank's arms, she struck directly into the solar plexus. Whatever Frank couldn't cover, that's what Amy targeted. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Red welts and blue bruises sprouted all over Frank's tattered torso.

"How are you doing Frankie? Are you able to breathe? Try not to vomit 'cause I don't want to remove the duct tape until you're unconscious. Wouldn't want you to scream out or do anything alarming like that."

Picking up Frank's shirt, she draped it over Frank's head. "I don't like the blood splattering all over me." The flow from Frank's nose had slowed considerably, but could easily run again. "You're such a mess my wee wittle Fwankie." Amy pouted.

Next came a straight right to the face. A straight left to the face. There was a crunch as Amy thought she might've broken the orbital bone. Or was it the cheekbone?

Frank could barely get his arms up to block the punches.

Right. Left. Right.

"How are you doing, Frankie? Still conscious?" Amy removed the tattered and spattered shirt from Frank's head. "Oh, not too bad yet. Lots of swelling. Your eyes will be closing up pretty soon...Yeah, I remember that I had trouble seeing when I first came out of my coma. Oh, your nose looks a little crooked. I can fix that." Amy grabbed Frank by the nose and jerked it back into a fairly straight position. "Sorry Frankie, it might not do you any good because I'll be doing substantially more facial rearranging shortly. Just don't go unconscious on me 'cause revenge is so much fun. I don't remember ever having such a great time; not since I murdered your dear friend Tommy."

Frank could hardly keep his eyes open. This couldn't be happening to him.

"Remember that cheerleader you and Tom raped at that party?" Amy retrieved the other photo that she had taken out of her handbag. "She was a cute little thing." Amy shoved the photo into Frank's face. "Beautiful and sweet, wasn't she? Yes. No. Don't know?" Amy put the photo back on the desktop. "Well, that was my sister Lydia."

Amy placed the bloodied shirt back on top of Frank's head. "You shouldn't have blabbed about fucking Lydia to your so-called friends. That's why your death is going to be slow and torturous. I know Tom's death was relatively quick by comparison. But, killing Tom, that was my first. What do the horseplayers call it, breaking my maiden? Yeah, that's it. I learned a lot from killing Tom. So I wanted to take my time to enjoy yours even more. Savor it, although truth be told, I don't know if that's even possible. So far, that was the happiest day of my life. Maybe today will top even that!"

Amy did a mini-series of stretches to limber up. She flexed her long lithe legs. Then Amy stood beside Frankie like she was a golfer lining up a tee shot. She waggled about on her stiletto heels. Only she wasn't going to swing a golf club. Instead, she envisioned the trajectory of a roundhouse kick to Frank's jaw. Amy's right leg retracted back, then swung forward. Like the arc of a driver, it was swift, powerful, elegant! Swack! Frank's head snapped back. Then it slumped forward.

Frank De Rossi's life flashed before him as Amy continued to lash out. Kick after kick after kick. Frank remembered every single moment of his life that had ever happened–the good, the bad, but mostly bad.

7

While Arthur Dobriansky was traveling eastbound on the last bus out of Las Vegas that evening, it would still be many hours before a cleaning maid at the Belfountain would discover Frank De Rossi's body.

Facial recognition software was reputed to be effective, but Arthur knew that its effectiveness could be thrown off by something as simple as a smile.

And he was smiling from ear to ear.

The End.

Surreal Killer is a fantasy. Nobody was hurt in the writing of this 100% fictional story. If anybody wants the story to be removed because it is offensive or distasteful, please leave a comment or send a private message.

If you leave a comment, please do not play the role of a spoiler.

Credit: Jay Livingston and Ray Evans wrote the song Mona Lisa.