The Valentine’s Day Massacre II: The Monster Within..

Fiction

Thunder rumbles in the distance. You stand there, looking out the window of the cheap motel room.
 
The rain is pouring hard but the sound is completely drowned by the drumming beats of your heart.
 
Lightning sparks in the heavens, illuminating the dark room for a moment, revealing the body of a woman; flabby, laying on the floor –in a pool of dark colored liquid, legs sprawled in an awkward position
 
The room is in total disorder, so is your world!
 
How had you become this maniac?
 
Your wandering mind pulls you to…
 
February 13th … (14 Hours Earlier)
 
In the same position, looking out a window, this time in the living room of your tiny apartment. The rising sun casts a beautiful orange glow in the sky. For a moment, you hang there, admiring the artistry of nature.
 
The electric kettle whistles in the kitchen, pulling you back to your living room.
 
You make yourself a hot latte, pick up a newspaper from the dining table and settle back in the living room, munching on a couple slices of sandwich.
 
Each sip of the latte; Edgy. Exquisite.
 
You chuckle at an article that says “Valentine in 24hours, break up now and save your bank account!” Nearly spilling coffee on your neatly pressed shirt.
 
You step out of your house –to work. But first, a detour to make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow.
 
A quick stop at a wine shop, a bouquet store and a 3-star hotel ensures you’re ready for tomorrow.
 
Your phone buzzes in your pants –the boo is calling.
 
You answer the call, talking all through the ride to work. There’s an uncomfortable feeling creeping up on you but you shake it off.
 
You look around but no one seems to pay you attention. People just whiz past as though you weren’t there and the ones that do, can only manage a weird smirk on their faces.
 
“Stupid fucks” you say. “How could they not notice this dashing, strikingly good looking demigod walking in their mist?” you utter in irritation.
 

 
The rest of the day flies by pretty quickly, and you’re back in your apartment, about to grab a shut-eye because tomorrow, oh tomorrow is going to be one helluva day– with a lot of rolling, tumbling and humping. Uh huh! A wide grin stretches across your face.
 
You’re going to need all your energy but just as you’re about to close your eyes, you get this weird text.
 
You jump out of bed and rush out of your apartment…
 
Your heart is racing.
 
“How could it be?”…
 
A few passersby give you a strange look, then it hits you– you aren’t wearing any clothes!
 
You dash back into your apartment, shove on your slacks and a shirt, then rush out again…
 
Half a mile into your ‘voyage’, you see the blinking neon lights of a garage store. “Joey’s Tool House” it reads.
 
You rush in there, screaming until you find a chainsaw and just like that, you’re out of there again, running with more determination.
 
A hapless Joey just stands there, unsure of what his next move should be after you screamed something about sawing off his genitals if he made a wrong move or thought about calling the cops.
 
A chainsaw in hand, you make your way to the destination, taking a moment to catch your breath.
 
Its a 3 star hotel but there’s no way they’ll willingly let you in without a not-so-gentle suggestion of psychotherapy and maybe solitary confinement in a prison somewhere in columbia where foreigners are eaten for lunch and their organs saved for desert.
 
so you go around back, ‘in good faith’, peeking through windows but you don’t see anyone of interest and just as you’re about to give up, a familiar sound from two storeys up nearly stops your heart in an instant.
 
The soft moans that describe a humping and romping session in progress sends rage flushing through your veins. You’ve never felt so angry.
 
You look around and you’re in luck, perhaps hades himself has picked a special interest in your cause. A rope lays fallow on the ground. You gingerly wind it around the chainsaw, sling it over your shoulder, then spiderman your way up to an open balcony attached to the room where the sound was coming from.
 
The cool night breeze sends chills down your spine. The couple haven’t noticed you yet, they are too engrossed –which is perfect because you have the ultimate surprise party planned…
 
You take a step in … someone’s butt is about to be meet cold, rip-teethed metal

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The Valentine’s Day Massacre I

Fiction

February 14th…

You just stand there, rooted to the spot, completely dazed. Your mind is doing a 220, in a million places at the same time.

The “Cling!” sound of metal hitting the floor brings your aloof mind back to the present.

The details of the events from the last 5 hours are sketchy. There had been an argument … that’s all you can remember

You look down at the 7″ cooking knife, laying on the ground beside your feet, stained red with bl–

No it can’t be blood! Your brain struggles to process the live pictures your eyes are feeding it.

Smeared on your shirt and palms, is the same red liquid –thick and oozing.

Your eyes nearly pop from their socket in sheer horror.

The distant sirens grow louder. You dart to the window; the dazzling blue and red lights edge closer. Your brain may think its the boss, feeling like a king in its palace –your rock hard cranium– but its your youth body that’s going to suffer the full brunt of a prison sentence.

Adrenaline and impulse kick in, your legs make a break for it, even though your brain screams at your body to stay put.

A dark alley, a change of clothes, 4 fences and a train ride later; you’re holed up in a cheap motel room, in a different city, with little to no cash, trying to replay the events from earlier.

“What the hell just happened?” you ask yourself, running your hands through your hair. A shower always helps you think, you decide you’re going to do just that but just as you’re about to strip and step into the shower, you hear a knock on the door.

You freeze!

“Would you like to buy some food?” a female voice calls from the other side of the door. As though on cue, your stomach growls. You can swear your intestines are nibbling away on the lines of your stomach.

You find spare change in your purse and shout for her to enter. You’re pretty sure the food is going to kill you but its a chance you are willing to take. You’re too hungry to think straight at the moment.

A chubby, skimpy clad woman wheels in a cart with food items and a couple of things to drink.

Something tells you she has more salient products on sale, things other than the food she’d just wheeled in, pronounced by the way she sways her flabby body from side to side motioning to her sagging breasts and stressing the ‘vegetables’ in each food item she describes.

Weed, Sex and Alcohol … Typical.

In modern times, turning down either of the unholy trinity in a cheap motel room was suspicious, but turning down all three was enough reason for them to call the cops.

The look on your face says you aren’t interested in anything other than the food. She notices and instinctively starts to reach for her phone. You counter by turning on the 14″ inch television in the shabby room to portray some state of normalcy and of course, sanity.

“I’d like a…” You start, but the woman stops swaying. She looks like she has just seen casper, only an unfriendly version. You trace her line of sight to the television and how about that?– you’re on the news.

The hotel room you’d been in; confetti and candles scattered around for a romantic touch, the police cordoning strays, and two bodies in the middle of the room– white cloth draped over them.

“The Valentine Day Massacre”.. Is the gruesome headline superimposed on the more horrific pictures on the screen.

At the top corner of the screen is a passport of you which makes you look like the lead star in the new series –the return of shrek.

You turn back to the chubby woman but you can’t tell which horrifies her most: the fact that the news says you massacred 15 people or the fact that you look like that in a passport.

There’s a brief stare down, then almost simultaneously, both your gazes lock on a cooking knife on the cart.

Time stands still…

If she gets out, you’re screwed. There’s only one option; one you’re not sure you’re willing to take … Yet …

…find out what happens next in the mini series