AFTER SEX DELICACIES
The killer had a pattern. Maybe it was a little too simple for the average serial killer. Some might even call it a cliché.
But it worked, at least for the first few victims.
Pick up someone with the least contribution to society. Prostitutes fit the bill perfectly.
Kill someone useless, Papa always said. Someone who's wasting their lives away. That way you'll sleep better after the job and your conscience won't nag you.
Next on the list was straight from the movies: lure the girl to a seedy motel. The ones that even the roaches stayed away from lest they inhale the smell that was more lethal than your average bug spray.
From then on, it was clockwork. Eat out of the girl first, then a couple of her organs. Pack up the remains in the carefully insulated bag given by Papa and cook them later at home.
The first few murders were seamless, maybe even smooth. Not a single organ had fallen to the floor while being dismantled. After the initial snack to satisfy the appetite, perhaps a finger or two, that grew with drinking the semen, each part was carefully washed and boiled at home before being devoured.
But then the authorities caught on and were eager to put a stop to what was dubbed by the media as “cannibal chaos.”
All of a sudden, motels like Nightly Paradise and Lusty Dreams were attracting more attention in the news than the Hyatts and the Hiltons.
The local street corners were abandoned at the hint of a sunset. The only girls that stuck around were rotting in destitution, perhaps deliberately seeking the greener pastures of the afterlife.
Those too were sampled but brittle bones left a disgusting after taste. The fireplace seemed to have more tolerable taste buds for those and gobbled them up quickly.
A change was needed and fast, lest the killer die of starvation.
The pattern had no choice but to leave its innocence of the adolescent years behind and seek some mature wisdom more associated with an Ocean’s Eleven-esque heist than murder and curbing a ravenous appetite.
Forty-five year old Mitch stared at Sandra as her long, blonde locks bounced against her slightly curved waist as she sat down at the bar and ordered a gin on the rocks.
For an upscale bar, the place was pretty dimly lit but Sandra always stuck out.
He had been watching her for a week now, carefully observing her work, her home and most importantly, her haven to escape both.
Each day brought on a different colored business suit and a new shade of lipstick but what deepened Mitch’s attraction to her beyond the point of return was her shiny waist length hair from which not a single strand dared to step out of line. The more he saw it, the stronger his fantasy of eating out of her got.
Each bounce was more precise than those of the models he saw in the shampoo commercials.
He abandoned his seat at the table for the more appealing barstool next to Sandra. He ordered a beer and said, “Her next drink as well.”
Sandra looked up at him. Mitch wasn't the most attractive guy in the world by a long shot but there was a certain maturity added to the other wise conventional good looks of a tall and well-toned body which enticed her. With just a slight bulge in the gut and his salt and pepper hair, Sandra felt he was better than the latest Calvin Klein model.
He was more real.
“I hope you don't mind,” Mitch said with a smile. “You were too attractive to resist.”
Sandra smiled and said, “You're pretty direct, I'll give you that. And brownie points for no cheesy pick-up line.”
“You always move this fast?” she asked.
“With a lady as gorgeous as you, I'm being slower than I'd like to.”
Mitch knew he was risking it by saying that. The line gave off more predator vibes than he preferred. But he wasn't in control. His testosterone had taken over his speech.
She hesitated for a second. Should I? She thought. What the heck! I owe myself a little impromptu fun and spice in my life.
“Not at the moment,” she finally said.
“By choice?” Mitch asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” She winked at him.
Thirty minutes later, the two kissed in her car before Sandra turned the ignition key and made her way home as Mitch caressed her thigh.
The new blueprint was working perfectly. The prostitutes had been replaced by more “respectable” victims. The seedy motels were replaced by a home. It never mattered who's place it was as long the sex, followed by a snack and later, packing the rest of the meal up, was as clean as before.
Sure, the process took a little longer due to the need to be more cautious. If prostitutes died, it didn't matter. But these newer victims needed to be observed before carefully being disposed of and cooked as their investigations would last a lot longer. Some of them came from affluent families just like Sandra's, who had an army of lawyers desperate to leech off of their money.
Then again, Papa always said the best things in life were born from the virtue of patience.
Out of breath and sweating profusely, Sandra excused herself as she got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
Mitch stared at her as he saw the familiar bouncing hair, finally allowing a few strands to relax and take a breather.
This is going so conveniently! Few more seconds and I'll have food for days given the size of the organs.
Sandra poked her head out of the bathroom and said, “I'll be right out, ok?”
Mitch smirked. “Sure baby,” he said, “but don't take too long. I'm getting quite hungry again and...well, you know! Just need some again!”
Sandra laughed and said, “So do