Vigilance Ep. 02: Cornering the Quarry

Amateur

In the upscale wealthy village of El Rancho Grande, near the gulf shores of the sprawling metropolis of Spanish Point, the mall of malls was waking up. Piled high in the sky, like a modern tower of babbling richness, it boasted six levels of opulence. Meanwhile, on the ground floor level, the food court and main concourse, I continued my vigilance. Surveillance was invigorated by the recent sexual liaison with my friend Rosa, who owned and managed the exotic lingerie shop.

When her boyfriend arrived, I was already out of her and out of her store. Rosa’s dark eyes, curvy shape and sensual smile sent me on my way. Neither employees, nor intimate partner were the least bit concerned. I was a sneaky deceptive son of bitch. One life is not enough to do it all, and no moment should be missed to embrace every breath of sinful delights. Not only that, I was also a contract killer. Most of the time, the U.S. government paid my expenses. Other times, freelance work kept me busy. I rationalized I only terminated the bad guys.

Today, for the local criminal justice, through a series of back channels, my private consulting brought me here. I was hunting a special kind of evil. My specialty was human predators who had a serious need to be out of the gene pool. As such, I chose my quarry with care. Sometimes my services were pro bono as public service. Usually, I relished in tracking the evil ones who got away with their crimes because they were above the criminal justice system. This generally applied to the wealthy, the successful, and the upwardly mobile, who committed more crimes and corruption in one day than the street criminals committed in one year.

On the issue of evil, all that means is the bad things people do to others and animals. To me, there’s no such thing as the supernatural, the occult of any other bullshit related to magical doctrines of one sort or another. Precisely, its magical thinking, sometimes called stupidity. That’s just part of the cover story people like to cloak their real intentions. Often, such are the proclivities for most of us, fuck or be fucked, feast, fight, and frolic, forage for the real meaning that haunts our temporal existence. I prefer the fucking to just about everything else.

Life is in the moment, as the quest for transformation offers options for the intrigue of free will. Naturally, there are caveats and consequences to exercising liberation and freedom of expression. Others will disagree, criticize and challenge the individuality of actions and perspectives. They, the proverbial them, clinging to the herd, the mainstream, the normalcy.

Stuck in their fears of nonconformity, they will oppose and betray you if they get a chance. But, like everything else, there are exceptions. When beliefs are threatened dangerous things happen, as hope springs eternal in the emotional neediness of immediate gratification for the vast majority of the flock. They are afraid so they act foolishly. To the endless array of foolhardy arrogance, sexuality becomes a weapon to do harm in a number of ways. Regardless of the social mantra, sex is the primal motivation for all human intentions for good or evil.

Speaking of an example of sexual weaponization, when sex becomes destructive, the quarry I sought appeared in the main concourse of the mall. A glance at my phone brought up a photo file. Right on schedule, his habits were predictable. Children’s day at the mall. Here he was waiting for a target of opportunity. Rico Pequeño, aka Dick Small, retired congressman, local political activist, and pedophile. With cunningly clever lawyers, he’d escaped the system many times.

Although out of office, as a deacon in his church, he held significant political and commercial power at the local level. His name was the bronze plaque dedicating the mall. My beginning again would ensure his terminal retirement and a fitting place for his demise. So, the instrument of cure for his alleged affliction, as testified to by several practitioners in the pseudosciences, should be appropriate for his death. Let’s see he’s raped kids, he likes strangulation, handcuffs and torture. He has a knife collection. I’d already thought of that one.

“Hi, Mr. Lance,” a sweet soft female voice whisper to me. Tall slim, blond, blue eyed and pixie cute, the young woman placed a cup of coffee in front of me. Angular features, a Swedish goddess so to speak, from a younger generation, she had quiet aggressiveness. “You’re looking good.”

“Thanks, Trixie,” I said and nearly melted in my chair. We were briefly acquainted in the few times I showed up to visit my friend Rosa. And, Lance Spears was a cover name. She was a computer engineer major at the local college. “You’re so good to me.”

“You’re one of my favorite customers,” Trixie complemented, smiled, blinked a few times and gave me a once over that lingered at my groin. Her wide smiling adorability accentuated an air of warm sensuality. “Buy any lingerie this morning? Or, just canlı bahis looking?”

“Checking inventory,” I said with a smile and risked going further. She was astute enough to pay attention to goings and comings of things around her. “How’s classes?”

“Good,” she added with a wink. “We’re studying anatomy this term.” Again, she batted her eyes that sparkled like a dew kissed morning in field of freshly pollenated flowers. In my fantasy, I could almost hear the bees buzzing. She added, “Dancing too, club work has been fun.”

“You know, I really need to catch your performance,” I muttered returning gaze for gaze, allowing a few seconds for artistic appreciation. “I bet you are amazingly talented.”

“Oh, Lance, you betcha, use your imagination,” she threw at me more boldly and leaned forward more closely. Resting her hands on the table, she made sure I got a good view of her very tight blouse. A couple of buttons were undone. The view was incredible. “Hope you enjoy your espresso,” she playfully taunted and sexily walked back to the coffee bar. “Later.”

“Well,” I breathed out to myself with a hushed tone. Took in a long inhale and thought it over. “Twice in one morning, geezus, what are the probabilities?” I turned around and glanced at the coffee shop. “No one else around.” I considered what might happen next.

Trixie was interesting, but not as older as I would normally prefer. However, life is too short to sweat over a few details as long as a particular legality about age stayed in the safe zone. To pay for college, she was a part-time stripper at a local club and worked part-time at the coffee shop. Well-endowed with ample adjustments, she was tall, slim and trim with long elegant legs. She had a hot, young smoldering anxiousness to experience life as much as possible.

Trixie Capers usually wore very short skirts and projected a youthful air of confidence. And, no, I’m not going to drink the coffee. My suspicious nature told me, fucking the daylights out of her was one thing. On the other hand, drinking a beverage I for which I did not watch the preparation was another. Of course, there are risks with just about everything.

We made eye contact from the distance, and she winked and raised an eyebrow. Okay, I’ll take that as an invitation. Again, twice in one morning? Or, business first, then a tryst at the coffee bar? Hmm, decisions, decisions, fascinating possibilities. Gazing around the coffee shop, the few early risers began to appear, but mostly kept to themselves. Outside, a gray shaded darkness enveloped the pristine wooded surroundings. For the beginning of the week, the prospect of an abrupt ending, a storm was brewing. For the next few critical moments, quiet prevailed.

Yet, that wasn’t for long. The leisure class, those of every age group who had the materiality to avoid a fixed schedule of servitude, started to fill the vacant spaces on the main concourse. There were places you went for solitude and places where people generally minded their own business. A mall was one of those places most of the time where you could hide in plain sight. For most people in and around urban areas, shopping centers, restaurants, amusement parks, and so forth, a false sense of security allowed for easy seduction. Environs that seemed safe was where the conveniences of comfortable consumerism met every whim and fancy.

“May I get you another?” Trixie was back. “Coffee, tea, creamy dessert?” She flirted. “Oh, may I borrow your pen? I need to make a note and write down your phone number.”

“No, thank you, my lovely friend, as to the coffee,” I answered with a smile. Another button on her blouse was unbuttoned as she leaned toward on the opposite side of the table. I pulled out my pen from my windbreaker and offered it to her. “When is your break?”

“Oh, at any time I want to take one,” she mouthed carefully making a perfectly rounded pucker with her lips. Ruby red, lipstick seemed freshly applied. “Wanna do…lunch?”

“Yes, I would enjoy having you for lunch,” I whispered with a nod.

She accepted the golden pen, for a brief moment examined its thickness, and handcrafted workmanship. With two fingers, she made a suggestive gesture up and down the length of the pen. She looked me straight in the eyes. A slow smoldering smirk etched her plump pouty lips. Pressing her lips together, she delicately placed the barrel between them.

“You can have me for lunch any time, my friend,” she teased. “I’d like to see what your other pen can do.” Her mouth puckered and she licked the pen before handing it back.

“Wow, I’m breathless after that,” I muttered hoarsely.

Given its unique design, it wasn’t just a pen. Of course not. Although you could write with it, that wasn’t the main purpose. This pen had been designed by a special group of techies in a department historically known for its science and technology. They were good at what they did. And, yes, sometimes the pen is mightier than the bahis siteleri sword. This one bit like a black widow spider, and its venom was exceptionally deadly. One drop and instant agonizing death.

With a counterclockwise twist of the plunger button, the pen produced a hypodermic needle from within the barrel. Inside, there was enough venom for three applications. One injection was more than sufficient for a 300 hundred pound person. As far as social media knew, there was no such thing as a substance that killed instantly without a trace. Yeah, go figure. Gullibility, ignorance and mythical belief systems assist in cover and concealment.

Since most people aren’t much more astute than the abundance of fake news, of course no such thing exists. Seriously? Yeah, of course, and that’s why we want you to believe an alien spacecraft crashed near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. You think our scientists can’t come up with a substance that causes an instant heart attack, leaves no trace, and is undetectable during an autopsy? Regardless, that’s what I chose for the ex-congressman.

“Until then, let me know,” she winked. “Seems one of my usual customers is here.”

My target had arrived. A member of the upper class, a retired congressional representative, he carried out his regular routine on schedule. Right on time, he lingered impatiently at the counter. Overweight, diabetic, puffy faced and dressed for the beach, the fat guy stared at Trixie. He licked his lips and tugged his groin. Probably, he was trying to make sure he still had a pair of balls. As a politician that was always in doubt. He wouldn’t need them much longer.

He certainly didn’t demonstrate that when he was in congress. Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and red flowery Hawaiian shirt, fatso chomped a cigar and adjusted his blue ball cap for some who knows what sports team. I’m not into sports, so I could care less and I don’t care much about sports people either. For the target here, what a stupid presence, I considered. All so typical for an aging has been politician. False bravado wrapped in foolishness.

Then again, what do we expect from elected officials. Cowardly, profane and witless, most are not much different from the mainstream public. Some segments of the public are hardworking and believe in something of social relevance. Yet, the oligarchs, the wealthy, those who control the political processes, influence public policy, and manipulate social media, perpetuate the gluttonous culture of human devolution. Problem is, the vast majority bought in, both literally and figuratively, to the illusion of the American dream. Manufactured consent is well insulated.

Social stupidity, except for the few anomalies of resistance, hasten the dying nature of a species doomed to extinction. Some of us are here to clean up the messes and take out the garbage. I have more respect for professional sex workers than most public officials. At least with adult entertainment, there’s more honesty and human dignity of self-liberation, freedom of expression and open-minded independence. Not only that, you know what you’re getting for whatever you’re paying for. Like the hot young blonde at the coffee shop, she knows exactly what she wants, makes no bones about it, up front and in your face. It’s a matter of negotiation at a mature level.

Seductively straightforward, from coffee shop to lingerie boutique, a good hand job, a wild crazy fuck, or blow job, pretty much sums up what’s important. But, politics, well that a special kind of deception where you get fucked without the consideration of a good lubricant. And so, here we are, the hunter and the prey, the tables have turned. Around me, the setting was appropriate. Right on Main Street, USA, in the quaint village of smoke and mirrors, and at the moment, it was devoid of an overabundance of greedy consuming humans. Inside here, it was quiet in the brief unfolding moments. It was exhilarating for the work at hand.

Except for the routine shuffling, a few scattered voices of the cook, the coffee maker and the kind the server, no one paid much attention to anything except themselves. In a selfie possessed world, you could hide in plain sight. Here and there, a pair of short shorts flashed butt cheeks on high heels. A tight stretch of yoga pants spliced an ample camel toe, and invited the senses to ponder the width and depth of balls deep penetration. Occasionally, there was an open shirted flash of six-pack abs that knew a gym, but never the fearful darkness of harsh realities.

Of which, life’s pains and pleasures, with soul wrenching fears, serve as good teachers to better train the mind and give meaning to the tears. At that some moment, Trixie did her thing, while a few customers lingered in spacious aloofness. Cute, friendly, with an easy drawl, she did what she was paid to do. At the same time, the darkness within grew as cold as my coffee, cooled and simmering from sitting and waiting out in the open. Timing bahis şirketleri is essential.

Fake, a fraud and foolish, the quarry took a chance. Untouchable, smug and pretentiously pious, the fox entered the hen house. A wolf analogy might be more appropriate, as those of us who keep the watch prefer to call ourselves the sheep dogs. Better yet, a few of us prefer to be called wolf hunters. Yeah, we’ll hunt them, find them and eliminate them. Here for instance, unbeknown to this predator, the farmer hired a watch dog. When they encroach, we approach.

The old politician smiled and nodded to the passersby who thought they recognized him. Yet, Rico, the small dicked political figurine continued to think he was famous and beyond the reach of the law. That is not untypical of the upper class, where wealth and political connections separate the upper 10% from the rest of humanity. There will always be those who think they are special, entitled and out of reach by the rules others have to live by. The rich and the powerful play by different rules, while the rest succumb to the seductions of consumption.

Yet, on occasion, the tables turn, and wolf forgets about the sheep dog. Predator now prey, diverted his eyes to the public restroom adjacent the coffee shop. Rico Pequeño hunted his next target. He scanned the main concourse and watched a few kid’s in the play area. It was still too early for him to strike. But, it was not too early for sure and swift retribution.

My golden pen held the answer to that, a green liquid field tested during clandestine deployments. It was symbolic that life is dangerous and this planet is filled with threatening pillagers. The target’s mask of civility was a fragile disguise of careless self-righteousness. That would soon fade. Because sometimes, the pen writes words of that are final. Ah yes, an inconvenient metaphor to express the necessity of urban vigilance.

There are special occasions when predators are beyond the reach of official justice. In those cases, a vigilante is necessary to the reset the balance. The logic is probably lost on the psychologist who last analyzed the soon to be departed ex-congressman. Previously accused of misconduct with underage congressional interns. Subsequently, he was diagnosed with some newly invented fantasy and needed a newly concocted expensive drug treatment program. Along with that came more psychobabble to escape criminal prosecution and impeachment.

All that plus rehab apparently worked in his favor. What a fun thing it is to make up stuff and pretend it is scientific. No less than three shrinks analyzed this politician and concluded three different alleged diagnoses. However, there comes a time for retribution and deterrence. Comfort comes in the relief of knowing the final assessment is terminal. My cure is final.

“Well, Ms. Trixie,” the old politician started, while he sashayed to the coffee counter. His bloated swagger taunted the conceit of protected class-consciousness. “How’s the dancing?” He leered hungrily at her. Even though, she was slightly out of his age range, he might image her, for the satiation of fantasy, as a succulent teen. “You’re looking good today.”

“The dancing is very good, Mr. Pequeño,” Trixie replied politely and swiped a glance at me. Her eyes said she was annoyed or agitated or something along those lines. Beyond that, I sensed fear. A sudden surge, as though she might have sensed something. “And, very tiring, I’m beat.” She looked up at the hulk and tried to smile. “How about you, sir?”

“Oh, you know me,” the ex-congressman began with a raspy tone. With a labored huff, he continued and stared at her huge chest. “I’m just shopping, mostly looking.” He took his coffee and waddled over to a nearby table. Red faced, breathing and heaving, I could hear each wheeze as he plopped down and overflowed the metal chair. He muttered again, “Just looking.”

“I’ll bet,” I murmured under my breath. What a bloated fool, I pondered.

For a moment, I assessed my quarry. Hunting humans was very gratifying for me. I never cared for hunting other types of animals, just humans. No doubt this one enjoyed hunting as well. I figured quietly, his sexuality was the thrill of the kill. Hurting others, especially ones weaker, was an orgasmic experience for criminals like him. I drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.

In the meantime, he was lurking and leering at Trixie. She was trading glances at me, as though she wanted rescue from this menace. Maybe he was trying to decide, whether he preferred children or young women. His M.O. had been younglings, primarily boys. There is no profile of a predator. Each has his or her own proclivity by which to inflict harm to others.

My senses were fully awake at this instant. The hunter, the sheep dog, moves in for the kill to enjoy the thrill of killing the wolfing shrill. I imagined I could smell and even taste the blood lust in the air, lurking in the shadows of mortal fears, with the inevitable termination a heartbeat away. The unseen is scary, unknown, is sometimes unnerving. It slithers and creeps in a darkness of tortuous thoughts of mind ripping debauchery. Then, you are fucked.

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