John dumped his weapons onto the mattress. He enjoyed the process of admiring each and every one. They were his prized possessions, and he wanted to select the right tools for his evening with Brooklyn.
What a stupid hooker name. One would think she could come up with something better since she sure as hell isn’t from Brooklyn—no New York accent. She should have called herself Branson.
John set aside a roll of tape, latex gloves, various-sized hammers, a camping hatchet, and his favorite, the skinning knife. He remembered the Neko Te still lay under the passenger seat, but he hadn’t planned to use it with Brooklyn, anyway. He liked to mix things up. First off, he needed to tape her mouth closed and her eyes open. He wanted her to witness her own death, but quietly.
Her movements and low moaning caught his attention. She was waking up. John tore a six-inch strip of tape off the roll and covered her mouth then secured her hands and feet with tape so she couldn’t kick or scratch him. He would begin as soon as he taped her eyes open. He pulled her eyelids upward and pressed a two-inch piece of tape over each one then secured the tape to her forehead.
There we go. Now you can watch everything I do.
Pleasure took over, and he grinned when the moment of realization hit her. He saw the terror on her face, and it empowered and aroused him.
He stretched the gloves over his hands and let them snap for emphasis. “We’re about to begin, Brooklyn. Remember when you said one of you was about to get lucky? I almost pissed myself with the irony. I intended to choose you all along. Shit happens when you have a smart mouth. Let’s see if you like this.” John dug through her purse and pulled out a cigarette. He held it between his lips, flicked her lighter over the end, and sucked in a long draw. “By the way, I hate cigarettes.” He blew the smoke into her open eyes and watched as they teared up. She tried to blink but couldn’t. Brooklyn squirmed from side to side and moaned. He blew smoke into her eyes again and again then finally dropped the cigarette out the two-inch opening in the side window. Once the smoke had cleared, he rolled the window back up.
“So, do you have any requests before I begin? This is your only chance to say something. No? Okay, let’s get started.”
He held each tool over her face as she lay on the mattress. He wanted her to see them.
“I’m going to start small since I want this to last a while. This here”—he held up the hammer—“is called a ball-peen hammer, and it doesn’t cause such a crushing blow, of course, unless I intend for it to. Anyway, check it out.” He gave her a tap on the top of the head with it. “See, not so bad. I could crack your skull open with it, but I won’t. I have other plans.” He looked to his side and chose another tool. “Now this here”—he ran his finger along the edge of the camping hatchet—“is a fun tool and useful. I keep it super sharp because I actually use it to cut wood for campfires when I’m out in the wild.” He gave her a slice across the forehead with it. Blood ran down both sides of her face. “See what I mean. That sucker is wicked sharp.”
A sudden knock on the driver’s door startled John. He set the hatchet down, climbed out of the bunk, and opened the window. The blonde was back.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I need to talk to Brooklyn.”
“That’s not happening, now beat it. I told you this was an all-night ordeal, so get lost.”
“Fine, but tell her I’m leaving for a few hours.” She held up her head defiantly. “I’ve been invited to party with a few boys that just walked out of the restaurant.”
“Good for you. Now go away.”
“Make sure you tell her.”
John rolled up the window, crawled back into the sleeper, and then pulled the curtain closed.
“Now, where were we?”