Surreal Killer 2
by Laurie S.

Warning: if you are under 19 or pure of heart or squeamish, do not read this tale. It is filled with gratuitous violence. Do not try the dangerous acts depicted in Surreal Killer at home or anywhere else.

Synopsis: While in disguise, a sexy young TG vigilante lures murderers into compromising situations and treats them with extreme prejudice.

Chapter 8

The Tranny Track was a popular gay bar on Post Street in San Francisco. Saturday night, it should have been crowded, but it was almost dead.

A young brunette tranny might've been passable, except for her five o'clock shadow and cheap synthetic wig. Blessed with a fabulous figure, it seemed that her lack of experience in dressing might've been the only reason that her physical transformation from boy to girl wasn't entirely successful.

The security man at the door, a big burly bruiser, noted that the name on the California Drivers License said Neil Harrison, male. The triangular jaw line and pert nose seemed to resemble the tranny. She/he was 21. "Enjoy your evening," he said with a nod of the head.

"Thank you." The voice was somewhere in between male and female. She put the ID back in her large handbag as she slung her leather jacket over her arm.

The young gal had been concerned that she should've got to the Tranny Track earlier, but was surprised that the place only had about a dozen customers. The last time she was there, it was jam-packed.

Madonna's Like a Virgin played on the house stereo system, echoing through the long narrow main showroom of the nightclub.

Stepping toward the bar, she was puzzled. What was going on? Did the Tranny Track fail a food inspection? Did somebody get shot here?

There was a tall guy standing at the bar: military haircut, bad teeth, and judgmental expression. Did she measure up? Yeah, he smiled as she took a seat two chairs away from him.

She returned the smile as her long, shapely, pantyhose clad legs, searched for the lower rung of the bar stool. She placed her jacket on the back of her chair and set her handbag on the counter in front of her.

Hidden under a blue-green rugby shirt and blue jeans, the man appeared to have a fit, muscular build.

An attractive middle-aged, Asian, "female" bartender, attired in a white blouse and a red-black plaid skirt befitting a Catholic schoolgirl, approached. "Good evening."

"Hi."

"Are you ready to order yet?" The bartender flashed a smile. "Or do you need some time?"

Looking around at the almost empty bar, the young brunette said, "Can I have a moment, please?"

"Sure." The bartender stepped away and returned to pretending she was busy. As Haddaway's What is Love started up, she/he started to bob her head in time with the catchy tune.

The young customer unzipped her large handbag and reached in for her Smart phone. Dialing up an internet connection, she wondered what other gay bars might be within walking distance.

The guy sitting close by looked at her, hoping she wasn't going to bail. The only other "gurl' at the Tranny Track looked like a truck driver in drag.

"I guess you're wondering why the place is deserted?"

The young lady looked up from the pocket-sized screen. "Yeah, I was here a couple of months ago. It was hopping. What's going on?"

"Are you from out of town?"

"Uh huh, I'm from Madera."

"That figures." It was Hicksville in the San Joaquin Valley.

A puzzled expression on the young lady's face needed a response.

The guy looked at the seat beside her. She yanked her head to the side, indicating he was welcome to sit beside her.

"I bet there were a lot of girls here the last time you were in town?"

"Yes, lots of beautiful gals."

"Things have changed. In the last two months, four trannies have been killed in San Francisco."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that's why the Tranny Track is empty."

"Was somebody killed here?"

"According to the police, one of the Double T regulars was followed out of the club, pulled into an alley and her throat was slit."

"My god, that's awful!"

"It was gruesome."

"I thought San Francisco was the most gay-friendly city in America."

"It only takes one sicko."

There was an awkward silence.

"Coming here was a bad idea. I should be going."

"No need to go. You're safe here." The man looked into her face, trying to get a read on her emotional state. "I'm an undercover cop." The man reached into his pocket and flashed her the San Francisco Police Department badge.

She'd seen enough cop shows to get the picture. "You're here on a stakeout?"

"Yes, you could say that."

"Have you any clues about the killer?"

"I don't think I should be discussing case details." The cop looked at the young gurl. She looked scared. "I just wanted you to know that you should be careful while you're here in San Francisco."

"Were the other victims murdered in this area too?" She seemed to be fighting back the panic. "Dressed as I am, would I be safer somewhere else?"

"Not necessarily. One gurl was murdered up in the Castro, another in the Tenderloin and one down in China Town. The killer seems to be an equal opportunity liberal," he joked.

The grim humor seemed lost on the Valley girl.

"By the way, I'm Detective Paul Starkey." He held out his hand.

"Cindy Mason," she said as they shook hands.

The rough feel of her hands surprised him.

She noticed the look. "I do a lot of pottery work and sculpting. It takes a toll on my skin."

"You're an artist?"

Cindy nodded.

"I should be doing my job here, Cindy. Can I see some ID?" Then he thought for a moment. "But don't make it too obvious."

Cindy reached for her handbag on the empty seat beside her. She placed it on the top of the bar. After unzipping it, she reached into a side pocket for her ID billfold, and extracted her drivers license along with a compact.

She flipped open her compact and, while she checked her makeup in the mirror, she slid her free hand onto the detective's lap and left her license there.

Detective Starkey looked down at the name, address, date of birth and photo. Glancing up, he tried to match Cindy's cute face with Neil's features.

"Thanks."

"No problem." She put the compact and ID back into the handbag.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else here that I'm a cop. I only told you because you weren't aware of the possible danger."

"Thanks Paul, I appreciate the heads up."

"We should pretend that we're having a normal conversation."

She looked puzzled.

"Can I buy the pretty young lady a drink?"

"Yes, by all means. I think I deserve one for taking a risk."

"What'll you have?" Paul raised his right arm to get the bartender's attention.

She looked at the almost empty mug in front of Paul. "What kind of beer are you drinking?"

"Stella Artois."

"I've never had that."

"It's one of the better beers. No bitter taste."

"Sounds good to me."

The smiling bartender stood in front of the couple. "What can I get you?"

"Two Stellas, please."

"Coming up."

"Have you ever been here for the show?" Paul asked.

"Yes. The last time I saw some fantastic drag performers. One was named Dorothy Gale. She did a pretty good Over the Rainbow. "

"Have you ever performed onstage?"

"No."

"Why not?" Paul looked over Cindy's lithe figure. "You've got great legs, a foxy body and a beautiful face. You're a natural. You should give it a shot."

Cindy smiled with delight. "Thanks. Maybe I will at some point down the road."

The bartender came over with two Stellas.

Paul put a $10 bill and a $5 on the counter and, with a hand signal, indicated that the bartender should keep the change.

"Thank you."

As the two drinkers grabbed their beer mugs, Paul proposed a toast. "To becoming the next big star."

They clicked their glasses together and took their first sips.

Cindy was pleasantly surprised by the taste. "I like it." She had drunk mostly Budweiser, Coors and Miller before.

There was a sudden change in the volume of the music. From the DJ booth came the Tranny Track's intro music, the theme from Lou Reed's classic Walk on the Wild Side.

"Good evening ladies, gentlemen and inbetweenies, tonight the Tranny Track is proud to present the best in San Francisco transgender entertainment. Direct from down the street, the ho who gives the best blow for the dough, here's Dick-See Chic doing her rendition of Avril Lavigne's What the Hell."

A vision with long red streaked blonde hair, heavy eye makeup, cut off jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers danced onto the Tranny Track's runway. All dozen sets of eyes in the place immediately fixated on the sexy Avril impersonator.

Dick-See moved in a frantic manic panic. She was Avril jumping up, down, all around like skater girl on a speed high.

Dick-See lip-synched the lyrics as she pinballed around the stage.
"You're on your knees, begging please, stay with me
But honestly I just need to be a little crazy."

The young sexpot pulled her T-shirt off, revealing an ample bosom encased in a vintage black lace bra. She whipped the shirt around above her head like it was a lasso. Then she threw it at the face of a startled front row customer, temporarily covering the bald man's head. She squatted down and mashed her D-cups up against the guy's face. When the man was finally able to see what was brushing up against his nose, he smiled broadly and reached out to embrace her. He caught nothing but air.

The fake Avril leapfrogged off the stage, landing behind the surprised and disappointed customer. Then she danced her way toward Paul and Cindy. As she strutted in time to What the Hell, she smiled as she fixed her eyes on the undercover cop. He automatically reached for his wallet so he could tip dancer Dick-See Chic. When Paul held out a $5 bill and stuck it in her bra, he copped a feel of her flesh. She hugged the man, thanking him for the cash.

Cindy reached for her bag to extract a few dollar bills.

Dick-See and the young tranny locked eyes as Cindy grasped the top of the drag queen's jean shorts and tried to wedge the bills into her waistband. The dancer responded by reaching forward to kiss Cindy on both cheeks.

Dick-See Chic smiled as she danced away to What the Hell.

"I like her," Paul said with an admiring smile.

"Yeah, she's hot. She even looks like the real Avril, except she's much taller."

"If I wasn't in the Tranny Track, I'd never have guessed she was a guy."

"Yeah, she was amazing."

Paul cast an admiring glance at his comely companion. "You think you could dance and lip synch like that someday?"

Cindy nodded. "Someday…way in the future."

Paul gave Cindy's hands an encouraging squeeze.

Cindy smiled in response. The game of pretense was afoot. If Sherlock Holmes had met Detective Paul Starkey, he would've seen through the deception immediately. Cindy's gut told her Paul was no undercover police detective.

By the time the next performer was introduced, Cindy complained to Paul that she wasn't feeling very good. Maybe it was that seafood she had eaten earlier. She excused herself to go to the washroom.

Paul himself was feeling a little tipsy. He'd had two beers. Stella Artois lager was 5% alcohol by volume. Did it pack that much of a punch?

When Cindy came back from the ladies room, she had made up her mind to leave. She apologized to Paul for leaving him all by his lonesome, but something wasn't right. She wanted to go back to her hotel room. She'd call it a night.

Paul, acting like a gentleman, offered to accompany her back to the hotel–to make sure she reached her destination safely.

In view of what had been happening in San Francisco lately, Cindy found it difficult to decline the offer.

Paul and Cindy waved goodbye to the bartender and nodded goodbye to the bouncer as they passed through the doorway.

Cindy's hotel was in Japan Town, only three blocks away. It wasn't worthwhile to call a cab. Besides, the cool night air might help clear her head.

Paul offered the young tranny his hand. She gladly accepted, although it was difficult to tell who was actually in need of support.

There were very few people on the street–a few cars passed by. Being San Francisco, Post was one-way because many of the streets weren't wide enough to accommodate traffic in both directions and have room for parking.

As Cindy did up the buttons of her leather jacket to combat the cool night air, the tock-tock of her high heels on the pavement echoed in the Post Street urban canyon.

Suddenly Cindy stumbled, awkwardly catching her heel in a crack in the sidewalk, but Paul caught her.

She wrapped her arms around his waist for support, afraid that she might stumble again. Paul threw an arm over her shoulder and held her tight.

As the pair approached an alleyway, Paul looked around. Not a soul in sight.

Suddenly he cupped his right hand over her mouth and dragged a frightened Cindy into the alley.

Although Cindy resisted Paul, kicking and trying to scream, she was no physical match for the big strong man.

"This isn't your lucky night, kid," Paul hissed. "You see, although I told you about the four murdered trannies…" Paul tried to push the tranny up against the brick wall of a building, but she was stronger than she looked. "There were…only three." He smiled as he saw terror register on Cindy's face. "You're the patron from the Tranny Track–victim number four." Paul paused. "I'm not really…a cop."

Paul reached for the knife in his jacket pocket, but it wasn't there. Had he dropped it when he was dragging Cindy into the alleyway?

Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his solar plexus. Caught totally by surprise, his eyes bugged at Cindy in shock.

Paul's grip loosened. His hand fell away from Cindy's mouth.

"Looking for this?" Cindy's eyes focused on the lethal knife stuck just under Paul's ribcage.

Paul's body sagged. Drained of life, the body slumped to the concrete as Cindy let go of the blade's handle and watched as his head slid down the wall of the building.

When Cindy had feigned losing her balance, she was able to find the lethal weapon in Paul's coat pocket.

She knew cops didn't carry knives. But the San Francisco tranny killer did.

Arthur Dobriansky was pumped. Exulting in his most skillful kill yet, he was extremely lucky to have chanced upon the serial killer.

From an artistic standpoint, it was his best kill. The phony cop had tried to trick young Cindy. He had tried to befriend her, offer help, and then tried to murder her.

Cindy was one lucky step ahead of the game. It wasn't her knife. The phony cop was going to stab her to death. She exulted in the danger–the thrill of the kill. The adrenaline rush was addictive. There was nothing else that could get her as high.

She reached into her handbag for a packet of wipes, the kind that Adrian Monk, the phobia ridden San Francisco detective always used to destroy germs. Cindy just wanted to wipe off any of her handprints on the knife handle. Then she'd check to see if there were any blood drops on her clothing, although that wasn't a serious concern. It wasn't her blood. It was the phony detective's DNA.

Arthur Dobriansky would get rid of Cindy's gear as soon as he could dispose of it safely.

A glorious act of vengeance — Arthur was pumped!

Chapter 9

Professor Lipshitz scrolled down on his laptop to the next section of his note. The students followed along on the projected image displayed on the large lecture hall screen.

"One of the main approaches, historically, to abnormal psychological behavior, is the supernatural tradition," Lipshitz began. "Abnormal behaviors are attributed to forces or agents outside of the human body. Spirits or demons cause a person to behave erratically. In some cultures, the Ancient Chinese, the Ancient Egyptians, the Hebrews, there was a belief that evil demons or spirits could be exorcised. For example, a famous film, the Exorcist, dealt with demonic possession of a young girl."

On the second of the large screens, a poster of the film The Exorcist flashed up. Arthur Dobriansky, seated on the aisle, five rows up, wondered if the supernatural part of the note was even worth typing into his Word document. He did it anyway.

"There are many other possible outside influences: the position of the moon, planets and stars. In the daily newspapers, there is a regular column devoted to astrology."

Another image of a daily horoscope column flashed up on the screen.

"Hands up those who read their horoscope occasionally?"

Almost all of the students in the lecture hall put up their hands.

"Apparently we have some people who aren't willing to dismiss the supernatural tradition."

The students laughed.

The door to the lecture hall opened. A beautiful red haired girl stood at the entranceway, class schedule in her hand, looking for some place to sit. Since it was the first day of classes, the lecture hall was packed. She spotted the empty chair beside Arthur. As she climbed up five rows of steps, Arthur stood up from his aisle seat to allow her access.

"Thanks," she muttered as she sat down.

"In the Stone Age," Lipshitz began, "trephining or trepanation was used in some cultures. It's a procedure where a hole is cut through the skull. It was meant to remove evil spirits from the head of the patient. One might wonder what was worse — the symptoms or the cure? In modern medicine, there are times trephining is necessary in the treatment of head injuries to relieve it from a build up of fluid or blood. However, there were other extreme measures used not too long ago. Lobotomies were performed in the twentieth century from the mid 1930s to about 1970 for a variety of disorders: paranoid schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive states, chronic anxiety, etcetera."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The girl who had just sat down looked over at what was on his laptop screen.

"Did I miss much?" she whispered.

He nodded. "Don't worry. I've got it all down," he whispered back. "I can give you a USB memory key later or email it to you."

There was a sigh of relief and she smiled.

Professor Lipshitz scrolled onto another era. "In the times of the Greek and Roman Empires, mental illnesses were attributed to an imbalance of the four humors: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood. Herbs and foods associated with a particular humor could be used to counter symptoms of a disease. Bloodletting was another treatment. Fluids could be drained from the brain."

As Professor Lipshitz scrolled down a few lines, Arthur struggled to keep up with the typing on his laptop.

"During the Dark Ages, many Europeans believed in the supernatural. Witches, spirits, and demons affected people. Psychological disorders were blamed on evil spirits that had to be exorcised through religious rituals. If exorcism failed, the evil spirits, demons or witches might use beatings or torture to make the body uninhabitable. In America, the Salem Witch Hunt is a sad chapter of our history."

Arthur clicked on the internet and typed in Salem Witch Hunt on Google. Hofstra University's wireless network allowed the students to be connected. At the top of the Google listings was a slide show on a National Geographic site. He clicked on it. Up came a dark photo of a tree and the title Salem Witchcraft Hysteria. Arthur clicked it again. He quickly scanned through the Introduction. He decided it would take too long to skim read the details, so Arthur switched back to his open Word document and resumed typing Lipshitz's lecture note.

"The supernatural tradition is still alive today in many countries. In Western culture, the biological and psychological traditions have pushed aside the supernatural tradition. In this Abnormal Psychology course, we will focus mostly on the biological and psychological traditions."

Arthur's mind wandered off to other things. He couldn't help but think of what had happened in San Francisco within the previous 48 hours.

He clicked back onto the internet and Googled San Francisco newspapers. Arthur clicked on the San Francisco Chronicle. Up came the newspaper's home page. He scanned down to the local news. There was an article about a homicide — a knifing near Japan Town. That sounded right. He selected it. Arthur quickly scanned through the article. The victim was Charles Carter, 31, of San Francisco. There was a small photo…He had a criminal record…Convicted in two assault cases…Served time…The police identified him by his fingerprints. There was no mention of the false ID or a connection to the recent "tranny" homicides.

Arthur felt disappointed. The police and the press hadn't realized that Paul was the "tranny killer."

For a split second, Arthur thought about sending an email message to alert the police that the "tranny killer" was dead, but thought better of it. Emails could be traced.

Going back to the Chronicle's homepage, there was another local crime article. It was about DNA. The police used familial DNA to solve a three-year old sexual assault case. The DNA of convicted felons was compared to DNA found at a crime scene to see if there was a partial match. The police used that tactic to determine that a felon's relative was a likely suspect in the unsolved sexual assault. Eventually they found an exact match. The police arrested the son of the felon.

Arthur became aware that the girl who had sat down beside him was looking at what was on his computer screen. He quickly switched back to his lecture notes on the Microsoft Word document.

A perturbed Arthur wondered if his DNA or any of his relatives' DNA might be in a data bank. Assuming that was true, if Arthur left even a drop of his blood or a hair follicle or skin cell or drop of saliva, it might be enough for the police to catch him — a frightening thought.

Arthur thought perhaps that he should give up his human hunting hobby before he got caught.

Chapter 10

As the big bird lifted off the runway, Arthur Dobriansky tried to get himself psyched up, knowing that the trip across the continent would keep the flight attendant busy for the next six hours.

Working in business class, one tended to get experienced travelers, but some of them could be real assholes. It was the celebrities especially who thought they were privileged: witness Josh Duhamel, Diana Ross and Naomi Campbell. And this New York to Los Angeles flight was sure to have its share of rich and infamous.

Once the Boeing 737 leveled off, the white-knuckled passengers relaxed noticeably.

When the seat belt sign switched off, a few passengers immediately released their harnesses, stood up and headed to the nearest available restroom.

Soon after, Arthur began rolling his drink cart down the aisle. When serving drinks, a flight attendant had to be bartender, psychologist, rule enforcer and public relations officer. After all, the flight attendants were the public face of the airlines.

"Good morning–and what kind of drink could I get for you here?" Arthur asked with a smile.

"I'll have a Bud Light, please," the gentleman in the three-piece suit replied.

"A gin and tonic, please," a man called out from the other side of the aisle.

Reaching into the middle shelf of the drink cart, Arthur extracted a can of Bud Light and began pouring it into a cup sitting on the top shelf. Then he presented the drink to the client along with a cloth napkin on the serving console.

The gentleman was busily perusing the business section of the New York Times.

Then Arthur gathered the ingredients for the second order together. First, he put ice cubes into the glass. He poured in gin and then tonic water. He added a slice of lime to the top edge of the glass. On the other side, the client was busy with his iPad and hardly took any notice as Arthur set down the gin and tonic on a cloth napkin.

For a NYC to LAX trip, the first round of drinks was typically uneventful. Later on, when the clients had had too much to drink, problems could arise.

Pro tennis player Benny Stevenson was aboard. When the flight attendant looked at the superstar, Benny said, "Chivas Regal on the rocks."

Arthur immediately placed ice cubes into a glass, opened up the whiskey bottle and poured the drink. As Arthur went to place the glass on Benny's tray, the plane suddenly shook — the drink spilled onto Arthur's hands and dripped down to the tray.

"You clumsy jerk!" Benny exclaimed.

"Sorry about that," Arthur said as he used a napkin to soak up the whiskey. "We must have hit some turbulence."

Benny Stevenson glared at baby faced Arthur. "Fuckin' faggots are everywhere," he grumbled.

"Attention passengers and crew, this is the captain," a voice said over the plane's intercom. "Could everyone please be seated? Please fasten your seat belts. It looks like we will be experiencing a little bit of air turbulence in the next few minutes."

As if on cue, the plane shook for the next few seconds. The drink on Benny's tray spilled in spite of his attempt to steady it. The whiskey dripped onto the tennis player's pants in an embarrassing spot.

"Shit!" A look of disgust, then anger, transformed Benny's facial expression.

Arthur noticed that Benny Stevenson had lived up to his reputation for being hot headed. But where was the charm and outgoing personality he was also noted for? The American superstar had single handedly driven tennis's popularity from the back pages onto the front pages of the sport section. He was outspoken — not one of those politically correct dullards. But Benny's meteoric rise had suddenly turned into a steep dive — and it was accelerating.

While the flight attendant used more cloth napkins to clean up the spilled liquid on the tray, Benny tried to finish the rest of his drink.

Then the young flight attendant began moving the serving cart back toward the crew section of the plane as the passengers dutifully strapped on their seat belts. Arthur flipped down a crew person's seat and strapped himself in.

After a fifteen-minute period of sporadic turbulence, the captain came on the intercom again and announced that the seatbelts could be unbuckled.

For the flight attendants, serving activities resumed once more.

Thinking that the turbulence might have caused the spilling of a few drinks, Arthur rolled the drink cart forward to the first of the seats in business class and began asking the passengers if they wanted drinks once again.

When Arthur came to Benny's seat, the flight attendant was a bit tentative. "Would you like something to drink, sir?"

"Chivas Regal on the rocks."

Within moments, Arthur Dobriansky had the drink plus napkins on the tray. He forced a smile, which was ignored by the still angry passenger.

Arthur quickly moved on.

Benny Stevenson had been involved in a very public scandal. He had cheated on his wife. When the indiscretion with a Las Vegas showgirl was revealed, numerous women came out of the woodwork, all claiming to have had sex with Benny. One even showed a newspaper reporter a sexted message showing Benny's purported cock. The voice accompanying the proposition sounded very much like Benny's voice.

The sex scandal rocked the tennis world. It was in all the newspapers and scandal rags. The tabloid reporters didn't even have to make up the news. It was all too unbelievable to have been invented.

Not surprisingly, the tabloids did play a part in fueling the scandal. They trotted out a new hooker or bimbo each day — another in Benny's long list of mistresses. They reported that Benny was heavily into gambling too. He was a high roller in Vegas and Atlantic City.

However, after Benny's wife Diane decided to split, there was a nasty custody battle and a huge divorce case. In view of the overwhelming evidence, the judge ruled in favor of Diane. The settlement was as large as any in history. The separation and divorce process had dragged on for a while.

There were consequences.

The scandal had a huge impact on Benny's tennis game. He hadn't won a tournament since the sex scandal broke. He had fallen out of the top ten rankings. Moreover, many sponsors had dropped him from their advertising campaigns.

But things went from bad to worse to incredible. A month after the divorce settlement, the sports world was shocked by the news of Diane Stevenson's death. She was murdered in her own house. A week later, Benny Stevenson was arrested for Diane's murder.

The ensuing murder trial brought out news of a huge cash withdrawal from Benny's bank account the day before Diane's death, but the prosecution was unable to find or identify the hit man.

When Diane was killed, Benny had an airtight alibi. He had competed in the opening round of a tennis tournament down in Florida, thousands of miles from Diane's home in Forest Hills Gardens, New York.

The prosecution pounded away at the sudden withdrawal of $1 million in cash from Benny's bank account. The motive was one of revenge. Benny was upset that Diane had been granted custody of the two children and half of his estate plus half of Benny's future income. The money was to be given to his wife to take care of the children, Howard, 8, and Megan, 6, until they reached the age of 21. If ever there was an example of the wisdom of a prenuptial agreement, the Benny and Diane Stevenson divorce was it — at least from the husband's viewpoint.

The prosecution stated that Diane Stevenson had been killed by a .22 caliber bullet to the chest.

Benny owned a Walther P22. Benny claimed the weapon had disappeared from the safe where he stored it in his house.

The police couldn't locate the murder weapon, so they couldn't match the bullet to Benny's gun.

Moreover, the prosecution was unable to prove that Benny had hired anyone to kill his wife.

Stevenson claimed the police had arrested the wrong man. They should still be out there looking for Diane's murderer. He even announced a $1 million cash reward for information leading to the capture and conviction of Diane's murderer.

This sparked a flurry of tips and reports that seemed far-fetched to most observers.

However, Benny never explained what he had done with the $1 million cash withdrawal.

In the court of public opinion, Benny was guilty, but he was set free. The prosecution could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Benny Stevenson had hired a hit man to shoot his wife.

Benny Stevenson was now a free man. Even if the hit man came forward and announced that Benny had paid him handsomely to knock off Diane, double jeopardy excluded Benny from ever being found guilty.

Criminal justice system? Isn't that what you call an oxymoron?

The flight attendants, because of the air turbulence, were behind schedule.

No sooner had the drinks been served then the appetizers needed to be provided to the business class clients.

The diners were given a choice of either honey-roasted duck or marinated Asian seafood.

When Arthur informed Benny Stevenson of the alternatives, the superstar athlete asked for more details.

"The honey-roasted duck is served on top of celery and a grilled pineapple salad," Arthur began as he placed the napkin and cutlery on Benny's tray. "It comes with a citrus dressing. As for the marinated Asian seafood, it consists of scallops, tiger prawns and poached salmon. The seafood is drizzled in Oriental dressing." Arthur had repeated the description many times to thousands of frequent flyers.

"I hope there are no peanuts in the two choices," Benny said coldly. "I have a severe allergy to nuts of any sort. Are these appetizers safe?"

"I can assure you there are no nut ingredients of any sort in the food," Arthur said in an earnest voice. "American Airlines is very aware of possible health problems arising from allergic reactions."

"You will have a massive lawsuit on your hands if there are any traces of peanuts in my food." Benny gave his patented death stare to the flight attendant. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Arthur said with a practiced smile. "Do you want to try one of these appetizers?"

"I'll have the duck."

Arthur reached for one of the honey-duck plates on the serving cart and placed it on the tray in front of Mr. Stevenson. "Enjoy."

There was no thank you from the dour diner. Please and thank you were not in his vocabulary on this flight.

'I hope you choke on it,' thought Arthur as he moved onto the next row.

Chapter 11

When Benny Stevenson entered the Ritz-Carlton's lounge, the blonde babe at the bar caught his eye immediately. Dressed in a dazzling metallic blue evening gown, with a provocative slit up the side, revealing her elegant shapely legs atop stiletto heels, Benny was mesmerized. Her goddess like breasts practically spilled out of her low cut front. Benny almost drooled. He was a breast and leg man — in the tradition of chicken hawk Cleghorn Foghorn — all conman filled with bombastic bluster. He'd tell any lie to get a beautiful girl into bed with him. Benny was ready to pounce.

Benny strode up to the bar with a broad smile on his face. He never lacked confidence. Lounge lizards rarely did.

"I know I'm known for being a bad boy, but I'm hoping that you prefer rogues to nerds, wealthy to the unhealthy, athletes to weaklings, the famous to wannabes, and attractive handsome guys to butt ugly losers," Benny announced with a devilish smile. "How am I doing so far?"

The babe laughed. "You're Benny Stevenson, aren't you?" She'd know those piercing blue eyes anywhere.

"That's right." Benny paused. "And you must be a supermodel in town to do a shoot for the Victoria's Secret catalogue? Am I right?"

"Thank you for the compliment. I'm flattered, but no, I must be one of those unlucky nerdy wannabes," she said with a straight face.

Was that a look of worry on Benny's face?

Then she laughed. "You sure can lay it on thick."

"Too much, huh?"

"You're a larger than life person. I guess I should've expected it from Benny Stevenson"

"And you are…?"

"Scarlet Pratt."

"I don't think I've ever talked to a blonde named Scarlet before."

"I'm a natural blonde. But Scarlet isn't an uncommon name — and there are some blonde haired girls named Scarlet."

"Like Scarlett Johansson?"

"Yes, she's one. But I think my mother and father liked the game Clue when they were kids. Miss Scarlet was one of the board game's pieces."

"Right, I played it many times. So, do you have a brother named Colonel Mustard?"

"No."

"Then I think I'm ready to solve the murder. I accuse Colonel Mustard. He killed Mrs. Peacock in the study with the dagger."

She smiled. "I've taken ribbings about my name many times."

"I guess it gets old pretty quick." Benny paused. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

"The murder trial?"

"Yup. It's been difficult."

Scarlet placed her hand on Benny's to comfort him. "I can imagine how hard it must've been."

"No matter what I say, that case always follows me."

"I can imagine." Scarlet looked at Benny with sympathetic eyes. "Perhaps we should change the subject…Let's start over."

"Good idea," Benny said with a smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm nursing a Chivas Regal on the rocks."

"Wow, what a coincidence. That's my drink of choice."

Benny raised his arm, trying to get the bartender's attention. "So what brings you to Los Angeles?"

"What makes you think I'm from out of town?"

"A lily white complexion in L.A.? Plus, we're in a bar at the Ritz-Carlton?"

"You really do have a clue…I'm an aspiring actress."

The bartender stood in front of Benny. "What would you like, sir?"

"A Chivas on the rocks for her and one for me as well."

"Very good." The bartender quickly went about preparing the drinks.

"Los Angeles is the right place for one in your line of work."

"I hope so."

"Have you lined up any auditions?"

"My agent says they're planning a remake of Casablanca."

The bartender placed two glasses on the bar and Benny Stevenson automatically reached into his pocket for his wallet and extracted a $50 bill.

Benny looked at the bartender. "Keep the change."

"Thank you." The bartender grinned as he stared at the visage of Ulysses S. Grant.

Benny handed a glass to Scarlet. Then they both held up their glasses.

"What should we toast?" Scarlet asked.

"Your audition." Benny's upper lip quivered for a moment. "Here's looking at you, kid," Benny said.

"That was so corny." Scarlet laughed at Benny.

"Yeah."

The beautiful people took sips from their glasses.

"That had to be the worst Humphrey Bogart impression ever," Scarlet bogarted.

"Yeah, but you never know...This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Scarlet buried her face in her hands in disbelief.

Chapter 12

Benny was accustomed to dumb star struck broads throwing themselves at him. Lucky Benjamin.

After countless drinks, he had invited Scarlet up to his hotel room.

As soon as he opened the door, he was all over her with pent up ardor. It was as passionate as that scene in Casablanca. They French kissed as if Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) hadn't seen Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart) since Paris.

He could taste the Chivas on her tongue, although she had only had two drinks compared to his seven.

He could feel her soft inviting bosom against his chest. She could feel his hard erection rubbing up against her crotch.

They stumbled forward and fell onto the bed, their lips still locked together. He almost bit his tongue.

She started to fumble for his belt buckle as he slipped the straps from her shoulders. The zipper was next. Then he pulled her evening gown down, exposing her bra and slim waist. The evening gown slid past her wide, womanly hips and fell in an inelegant heap on the carpet.

Scarlet reached for the zipper of Benny's pants and then she tugged his pants downward.

"You have a big one," Scarlet mumbled as she glanced down at the inflated boxer shorts.

He undid her bra with practiced ease — then he stared at the perfection of her form. "I like big tits. What man doesn't? And yours are simply amazing." Benny stuck out his tongue to lick her right teat, but she rolled away from him.

"Do you have any protection?" she asked as she sat up on the bed at arms length.

"Ah, you mean a condom?" Benny propped himself up on one elbow. The alcohol had slowed his reactions.

"Yes, unless you have a bodyguard hiding in the next room," she said sarcastically. "What else could I mean?"

"Yeah, I'll get out a condom." Benny got to his knees slowly.

"Good. I need to go to the bathroom for a moment." Scarlet paused as Benny pouted, afraid that he might not be having sex with this beautiful gift from the gods. "Don't look disappointed, Benny. When I come back out, I promise you a night of lovemaking you'll never forget."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. It was deep, long and passionate with the suction pull of a vacuum. She breathed in his air. She was an amazing kisser.

Benny let go reluctantly as Scarlet tried to pull away. She smiled as she rose from the bed. "Hold that erection," she said with a laugh, looking at his love pole straining against the cotton underpants.

She walked to the entranceway where she had dropped her handbag. She picked it up and as she moved to the bathroom, she began to search through the contents.

Once inside, she closed the door. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Her magnificent perky perfect breasts stared back at her. Her bikini bottom thong still covered her private parts. Then she took a moment to admire her 'to die for' long shapely legs.

Her lipstick was smudged and some of her foundation needed a touch up. Yet her eyes looked amazing and her long, gently curled blonde hair was tousled by the frenzied French kissing and roll in the Tempur-pedic hay.

Scarlet adeptly removed the compact from her bag and smoothed some powder onto her cheeks. She quickly brushed the excess powder away.

Next was the mascara. She enhanced her eyelashes with deft touches of her black mini wand.

Then she applied pink lip-gloss. Tasting like wild cherries, it gave her that wet "come fuck me" look.

Lastly, she took out a small container of a brown gooey substance. She reached into the small jar with two fingers, dipping into the brown substance. Then she transferred it to her tongue. She repeated the process once more.

There were other unusual contents in her large handbag, but they were for later.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she immediately caught Benny's eye.

Benny stood at the foot of the bed completely naked, his cock half erect, but growing by the second.

Scarlet used a hand to cover her mouth as she laughed aloud. "Do you like what you see?"

Benny's penis stiffened. "Very much so." His eyes wandered over Scarlet's perfect body. He so wanted to remove Scarlet's black thong with his teeth.

"I want to be fucked."

"Then come to papa."

Scarlet ran toward Benny and leapt into his outstretched arms, knocking him onto the bed.

She planted her lips onto Benny's and pushed her tongue in between Benny's lips as her arms encircled Benny's body.

Benny welcomed Scarlet's kiss.

"Fuck!" Benny tried to scream.

He panicked as he realized that he tasted peanut butter on her tongue as it snaked into his mouth.

He tried to push her away, but she clung to him like a bloodsucking leech.

The effect of the allergic reaction was instantaneous.

Benny's throat immediately started to swell up. Within seconds, he wouldn't be able to breathe.

Scarlet's lips engulfed his lips. He tried to spit out the deadly peanut butter. He couldn't separate his face from her face as she clung on for dear life — his fucked up life.

He pulled at her long blonde tresses. Unbelievably it came off in his hands. Her magnificent blonde hair was a wig. A smooth wig cap lay beneath it, giving her a bald look.

Desperately he tried to push her away! She was stronger than she looked.

He tried to roll her over so he could drop her off the side of the bed.

He struggled for a breath of air. Even though he could take in air through his nostrils, his esophagus had tightened shut.

Benny needed to get to his EpiPen — the Epinephrine autoinjector — or he was dead.

Scarlet let go of her mouth hold on Benny's lips for a moment. It wasn't out of compassion. "You're really fucked now, Benny."

Benny's expression was one of shock. It was a man's voice he heard.

"I'm afraid that this is the last thing you will remember — a deadly night of lovemaking with a beautiful shemale. Hardly the way you would've wanted to go."

Benny was fast losing consciousness.

"Out with a bang and a whimper." Scarlet sat up on the bed as Benny's body convulsed. "Too bad all the beautiful girls you fucked couldn't see you now."

Benny tried to raise a hand as if to plead for mercy.

"Nobody will feel sorry for you, Benny. Everyone knows you killed your wife."

Scarlet kissed Benny once more as he fell into an unconscious state. No air could reach past the closed esophagus.

"Anaphylactic shock — what a sad way to die."

To ensure that he would suffocate, Scarlet pressed her forearm across Benny's throat. She enjoyed every moment as Benny's life force expired. Killing gave Scarlet an amazing thrill. There was nothing quite like that incredible feeling.

When a hotel maid found the Benny Stevenson's body around noon, she screamed and screamed. It was very upsetting. His body had been placed in the bathtub. Benny's magnificent body was mutilated by sulfuric acid. His once handsome face had been burned beyond recognition.

The police had been quick to check the security recordings. At around midnight, the footage showed a beautiful blonde in the elevator accompanying the infamous tennis player Benny Stevenson. The young hot to trot couple stumbled out of the elevator at the seventh floor, presumably on their way to Stevenson's room.

About a half hour later, the same mysterious blonde lady entered the elevator by herself. She went down the elevator. Ten minutes later, she made a return trip up the elevator. She pulled a piece of luggage on wheels behind her. It must have contained the sulfuric acid used to mutilate Benny's body. Therefore, he must have been killed before midnight.

About 45 minutes later, the mystery blonde rode back down the elevator — never to be seen again.

As the police examined the security recordings, they noticed that they never got a clear look at her face. She always seemed to be looking down at the ground or away from the cameras. Or she was kissing Benny. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

Why would she use acid? Obviously, it was to destroy the forensic evidence.

Acid had even been poured into the victim's mouth and down his throat. The bed coverings were thrown into the bathtub as well.

Sulfuric acid? Alarm bells went off. The investigative team was aware that there were other murders in other locations where the killer had used acid to cover up the evidence. This telltale modus operandi could lead to the arrest of this beautiful sexy serial killer. The clues gathered from many seemingly unrelated but oddly similar crime scenes could help nail the culprit.

Maybe the forensics team had caught a break. They rejoiced that they had found a few strands of blonde hair. With luck, they could find DNA from the hair follicles.

How Benjamin Stevenson died, at this point, was still a mystery. The medical examiner would have to establish that.

Although there was security footage of the hotel's parking lot, the killer apparently had retrieved her luggage from a vehicle or location beyond the scope of the cameras.

The L.A. Police knew that finding the killer wasn't going to be easy. She had covered her tracks well.

Unlike the film Casablanca, the authorities couldn't "round up the usual suspects."

Meanwhile, at LAX, Arthur Dobriansky was boarding an American Airlines flight. It was just another workday for him. However, he was very tired from the previous night's extra curricular activities. The flight across the continent was going to be a tough one, but he smiled as he thought of his righteous actions. Justice was a bitch in a blonde wig with a peanut butter covered tongue.

Arthur laughed out loud.

The End of part 2.

Author's note: parts 3 and 4 are complete and will be posted soon.