The Feeder (11 page)

I inserted the blade of my knife into his trachea, careful not to touch the jugular veins that throbbed on either side. I dug around until I reached his larynx and destroyed it. I tore the tape from his mouth – he no longer needed a gag. He tried to scream but it came out as a wheezy whistling sound.

“Time to play Operation, Dirk,” I told him. “It takes a very steady hand…”

Starting just below his navel, I made two shallow incisions through the skin of his belly, first vertically, then horizontally. The slices intersected to form a large cross in the center of his abdomen. I pulled the skin back at the corners, exposing the bloody grayish sausage links underneath. The bullet I’d fired up his ass had traveled through his abdomen and exited just below his rib cage. It had missed his heart and lungs but caused enough damage on the way through that he was now hemorrhaging internally from multiple wounds. He lay in a puddle of his own fluids as blood and shit oozed from his ruined rectum. I wished I had thought to bring a wine bottle so I could shove it up there and give it a kick.

“How’s it feel to have your asshole torn up?” I asked him. It was an honest question, even though I had no desire to experience it for myself.

He answered with more whistly non-screams.

“Yeah, that’s about how I thought it would feel. How do you think those girls liked it?”

I began pulling the strands of intestine from his belly. There was a lot of it. The human body had approximately twenty feet of small intestine – plenty of raw material, pardon the pun.

After pulling all twenty-odd feet of guts out of his belly, I draped it in a loop around his neck and then flung it casually over his shoulder like a fashionable feather boa. The next loop I fed down his throat and pulled out of the opening in his neck. I pulled the loop through the hole as far as I could, then gave it a decorative twist and slung it over his head.

Dirk was still alive but far beyond the point of struggling.

It was time to add the final touches to my masterpiece. I sliced his nipples from his chest and shoved them in his mouth. Maintaining consistency in each killing was vital if I wanted Camille’s killer to be blamed for each murder I committed.

That was exactly my intention. The nipples were something
he
did and I was just copying for the sake of deception. Removing the cock and balls, well that was my own little invention. Emasculating a guy like Dirk felt
right
. A waste of skin like him did not deserve to have perfectly functioning male genitalia when there were nice guys out there who had to do without. What right did he have to be born with a penis and then use it to hurt people? It just wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fucking fair.

When I finished with Dirk I stepped back to admire my masterpiece. It was my best work yet. The head of his cock peeked out from between his lips, like a shy turtle poking its head out of its shell. His eyeballs stared flatly at me from slits I had cut in the flesh of his tanned, muscular chest just above his missing nipples. He looked like a perverted Picasso come to life, except he was dead… almost.

The best part of my masterpiece had to be the eyes. All four of them. Two newly created ones in his chest and two in his head. After removing the eyes from his head I hadn’t let those eye sockets remain empty – oh, no. They were full.

Dirk stared back at me with two eyes in his chest and a bloody testicle stuffed into each of his eye sockets.

He was bleeding to death but somehow still alive… just barely. I drove my knife into his heart to stop it from beating once and for all before I left. I needed to see him dead so he wouldn’t haunt me in my dreams.

~ Chapter 14 ~

Dead End

Hollywood Hunk Feeder’s Latest Victim.

The headline screamed up at me from the morning edition of the LA Times. I scanned the front page article then tossed the paper aside in disgust. “Victim” was what they called him. They made no mention of all the women he had victimized. Some were little more than children – starstruck teenagers enthralled at being in the presence of what they mistook for greatness. Being one of Hollywood’s hottest leading men apparently gave the scumbag license to abuse women without fear of consequences.

I had researched my victim while making preparations to take him and what I had learned was revolting. Dirk Davis was not a nice person at all. I already knew this from what I’d read in Cammie’s journal but one didn’t need to look far to learn more about the sick son-of-a-bitch.

It seemed Dirk had some nasty fetishes that he indulged with any woman unlucky enough to find herself in his company on a one-on-one basis. His sick little sex games resulted in permanent scars for his victims, both of a mental and of a physical nature. A handful of Dirk’s victims came forward and tried to press charges against him, with shocking tales of the sadistic things the Tinseltown bad boy had done to them.

Roofie rapes were his standard M.O. but he hadn’t been satisfied with just having sex with them. The ones who remembered their ordeals and had the courage to talk told tales of horror. They experienced rape with foreign objects, cigar burns and mutilations to the most sensitive parts of the body, the genitalia in particular. One 18-year-old victim emerged from a date with Dirk with her clitoris burned pretty much clean off by a cigar. Others suffered involuntary piercings of the nipples and labia, through which he would insert random objects such as pencils, key rings and whatever else he happened to have handy.

Victims with the courage to testify were torn apart in court by Dirk’s lawyers. A celebrity with his kind of cash and status had no trouble assembling a ‘dream team’ of legal defense that made OJ’s team look like a pack of baboons. After discrediting and reducing to tears one victim after another, Dirk walked away a free man every time. He didn’t pay a dime of settlement to any of his accusers. His victims’ lives were ruined after having endured what they did at Dirk’s hands and then getting mentally raped again by his dicksnot lawyers.

Toward the end, Dirk had felt all of their pain. I had made damn sure of that. He deserved what he’d gotten and I felt no remorse for what I’d done. I had enjoyed every second of it.

So now, I was apparently the serial killer known to the Los Angeles media as “The Feeder”. Nobody had the faintest idea that I was a mere copycat of the real killer.

An eerie nickname it was; bringing up mental pictures of one who feeds upon his or her victims’ remains. I was reminded of the ritual performed by ancient Native American hunters following a successful kill. They gutted the animal, typically a bison, and passed the fresh liver around. Each hunter took a bite in celebration of the kill. I’d tried it once before, after killing a moose. I found it a little weird but not the worst thing I’d ever tasted. I could see it being palatable once a person acquired a taste for it.

I admit I had been curious, but resisted the urge to taste my human victims. We were such a repulsive species – riddled with drugs, toxins and social diseases. Thinking about it made me feel ashamed to be human but then, I was no stranger to shame.

I had sliced a couple of small pieces off of Dirk and kept them, not as souvenirs or late-night snacks or anything – that would be sick. I kept them as insurance, for when I located Camille’s killer. The real Feeder would be made accountable for the things both he and I had done.

Another player in my sister’s miserable life was dead. I should have been satisfied but there was still one more out there. A ruthless murderer (besides me) was still walking around free, thinking he’d gotten away with killing my sister, some guy at the White Surf motel and lord only knew how many others.

I stared into the bathroom mirror, analyzing the solemn face that gazed back at me. Camille looked tired and sad… so sad. I had failed her. I was exhausted, mentally as well as physically. I had nothing left inside. Part of me just wanted to turn and walk away from this pointless vendetta and go home. I could be on a plane within hours, back to Canada where I could resume my normal life and put the killing behind me.

No, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave while Camille’s killer still lived, unpunished and free to kill again. As long as he was free, I never would be. I had to find that nipple-slicing psycho and finish him before I could allow myself to return home. If I didn’t stop him, more would die – of that I was certain. More women who were beloved sisters and daughters… more innocent bystanders who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I felt a responsibility not only to the ones who were dead by his hand due to my interference but also to the ones whose lives might be saved if I intervened just once more.

The problem was, I had run out of clues. The rest of the names in Cammie’s journal all seemed to be dead ends.

The only thing left to do was draw on my own personal experience and utilize what skills I had.

I was an excellent hunter. Regardless of whether I was after ducks, deer, moose or bear, I seldom returned home from a hunt empty-handed.

I knew that when a trail went cold the hunter needed to go to where the prey was most likely to be found and possibly lure it with bait. The most logical hunting ground in Los Angeles would be the area where Cammie was staying before she was killed.

I would go trolling for the fucker, using the best bait ever: Camille.

As I pulled on my fishnet stockings and clipped the garter belt around my slender hips, I daydreamed back to a time not so long ago when I wasn’t a killer; back to a time when I still had a twin sister. The stubborn ache in my chest refused to fade, following me every day as I pined for Camille and seethed with outrage at her murder.

~ Chapter 15 ~

Trolling for Trolls

My quest to find the killer cop/pimp took me into a world I’d only seen in movies. I blended with the hundreds of other prostitutes almost too well. Some of them even said hello to me as if they recognized me.

When I started attracting attention to myself by turning down dates, I thought I might have to relocate to a different area to avoid being pegged as an undercover cop. I raised less suspicion than I’d expected, which led me to believe Camille was a familiar face in that area. It would be only a matter of time before he saw me, I thought.

One night, a plain brown sedan pulled up beside me and the driver waved me over.

“Get in!” he ordered.

I sauntered over to the car, preparing to dismiss another prospective John. I leaned toward the open passenger window, careful not to place my hands on the car.

“Hey honey, what’s up?”

“Don’t you fucking, ‘hey honey’ me! Get in the fucking car!” the driver shouted.

“Not if you’re going to yell,” I said in a petulant voice and turned to walk away.

A pair of hands grabbed me from behind, forcing my arms behind my back. A massive bear of a man shoved me into the back seat of the car, climbing in behind me. His weight was on top of me, keeping me pinned face down on the back seat. I couldn’t fight him; he was three times my size and probably a steroid junkie too. I began to panic. Having my movements restricted was not something I tolerated easily.

The car door slammed shut.

“Drive!” he barked at the man behind the wheel.

As the car sped away, I struggled to turn my body so that my back was against the seat back instead of against the man’s body. He allowed me that much movement but still kept me restrained.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he asked me.

“What does it look like?” I spat, doing my best to stay in character, “I’m tryna fuckin’ work!”

“First of all, you already know you can’t work there without giving someone a cut. Word has it, you’re not
his
anymore, which means you belong to
us
.”

“What makes you think I was
his
to begin with?” I snarled. I had a feeling ‘
he
’ was none other than Cammie’s angry cop murderer.  Maybe I could learn something from these goons if I got out of this alive.

“Don’t play fuckin’ stupid. We all know about you, Princess. But if
he’s
gonna be stupid enough to dump a prime piece of pussy like you, then we’re grabbing that action before anyone else does.”

“Well, you know what they say about
him
,” I said. “Girls don’t get away from him and live. Since I’m still breathing, I must still be with him.” I glared at my captor with defiance. “Which means you just fucked up in a big way. I wouldn’t want to be you when
he
finds out about this.”

The big guy released his grip and allowed me to sit up.

“I think you’re full of shit, bitch. Word on the street is, you’re dead. Since you’re sitting here talking to me, I’m guessing you’re not dead, but you’re gonna be just as soon as he gets his hands on you. If you’re smart, you’ll stick with us, work our track and give us our cut. Face it, we’re the best protection you’re gonna get at this point.”

“What makes you think I need protection from him? You ever think maybe
he’s
the one who needs protection from
me
?”

The big guy laughed.

“Oh, that’s a fucking beauty! You hear that, Ron? This ho thinks she can take out Caleb!”

The driver joined him in laughter and I pondered the new little gem of information the big guy had unknowingly given me.

Caleb.

It had to be him.

The tall angry cop’s name was Caleb.

“Tell you what,” I said, “why don’t we go and see Caleb right now and we can ask him for ourselves just who I belong to. I’m
dying
to hear what his answer is.” I folded my arms across my chest and smiled.

Checkmate, motherfucker.

The big guy looked scared. He looked at the driver for help but the driver didn’t offer any suggestions other than to shake his head.

“Ron says no. And I’m with him. Fuck, no!”

The car slowed and pulled up to the curb. The big guy opened the door and got out of the way so I could slide out of the car.