Dystopia

By Spider Hacksaw

Lock Crick has returned home to his friends, after serving thirteen months of punishment and pain, for the accidental killing of a hitchhiker, on a dark country road, in the pouring rain.

Now, games and masks and nightmares of six friends' shared past, conspire and collide, as childhood demons taunt and hide, on this Halloween night and the eve of winter's bane.

A welcome home celebration and a trick or treat incantation, turns rotten and rank, during a party prank, when an uninvited guest ends up slain.

Another accident? Murder maybe? Is it Owen Poe's blood or a fake blood stain? Because now his body is missing, and good friends are acting strange.

Raven Cathmore and her grown-up orphan friends must learn the rules of insanity and the reality of someone's twisted game. As the snowfall grows steeper and the body-part pile gets deeper, someone is playing for keeps, and one of them is to blame.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467081429

Spider Hacksaw

Spider Hacksaw is a reclusive writer living in various areas at different times of the year. All of spider's contact with the outside world is handled through his assistants. Spider Hacksaw's stories pertain to the struggle between the darkness and the light. With the underlying theme that regardless of how great the darkness seems, there still exists the light, even when it appears that all is lost, the light is still there, and it can never be fully extinguished. When all is bleak and the Ubiquitous Umbra appears to have won the eternal battle with Dr. Radiant, the light still throbs, even in the deepest realm of the Wild Black Yonder. Dystopia is spider hacksaw's 2nd book. It was originally written as a screenplay in 1992. Spider's first book, A Midsummer's Nightmare was originally written as a screenplay in 1993. Both scripts were sent out but neither were made into films. Spider is currently writing a 3rd book. He will soon be making his books into films.

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© 2011 by Spider Hacksaw. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/14/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-8141-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-8143-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-8142-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011919239

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART I

PART II

PART III

For

Agatha Christie

Stephen King

Anne Rice

For all the joy that you bring

When I was a child, I played with my imagination.

Now that I’m a man, my imagination plays with me.

—s.h.

PART I

The burn of darkness upon the skin

A monster’s voice from deep within

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

Ready or not here I come

A pale sky sits upon brown fields of tilled and toiled soil, stretching out over a grim broad land.

The sound of footsteps echo softly over the two-lane blacktop highway, moving closer through the stillness that stretches on forever over the vast plains. The shadow of a lone figure falls across a hand made sign stuck into the ground on the side of the road. Written in dark crayon, upon the splintering plank of pine, is the word:

DYSTOPIA

Below that, in smaller letters: Population: 7 souls, best guess. Maybe more. Maybe less.

A stark silence imbues the air for as far as the ear can hear. The shadow exhales visible warmth into the autumn chill. After a few moments it moves away, continuing forward alongside the road, wrapped in a dark hooded jacket, beneath the bleak endless sky.

Tessy Moody sits rigid and pinched. She is anxiously leaning back and forth in the rocking chair that sits in the middle of the living room at 217 Mulberry Drive. Her back is to the kitchen as she stares intently at the front door, waiting. Her hands are lost in the pockets of her coat, fiddling with the butterscotch candies in one and some loose change in the other, while her mind digs through the mess of thoughts in its own similar pockets. Endlessly searching for relief from the worries and fears that construct her existence: Her daughter’s youngest child with cancer in remission, the need for new snow tires, her false teeth not fitting right, her brother Rolly still in the bathroom, so much more… .

And now this.

She needs this like a windmill needs to shit splinters. Whatever that means exactly, she’s not sure. It’s just one of the many things her dead husband used to say.

Tessy will soon be seventy-three. And she feels every bit her age, if not more. The only worthwhile thing to celebrate this year will be the fact that she hasn’t smoked a single cigarette in six months. Amen and—

BING BONG!

The sound of the front doorbell startles her, just like she knew it would. It didn’t matter how much she tried to prepare herself for it. She is far too mousy to not be taken off guard. But at least the noise had knocked her worries off of their well worn path.

Tessy uses the sudden rush of skittish energy to thrust her reedy carcass up and out of the rocking chair. She skedaddles across the floor in an attempt to reach the door before the bell can—

BING BONG!

—ring again.

Sam damn it. She whispers the curse her dead husband would have used as she grabs the knob and yanks the door open.

Sheriff Karl Mayer and Deputy Knox Pellen stand on the front porch. They stare intently at the shriveled apple face of the lady before them.

Tessy blinks against the milky light of another November’s day and the silhouettes before her. She adjusts her thick glasses and opens the screen door.

Tessy Moody? Sheriff Mayer inquires.

Yes, Sheriff, Tessy nods. Come on in.

Pellen takes the screen door from her and lets the Sheriff enter first. He glances back at the patrol car before going inside, assuring himself that it is locked and that he has the keys in his pocket. Not that it matters. The neighborhood is deserted. It is still too early for any small town rebel turd clumps to be up causing trouble. And all the well behaved turd clumps will be in their first period classes by now. He and the sheriff had passed the school bus on the way out here. Still the idea of some hoodlum prankster getting into the sheriff’s pride and prejudice, and taking it for a joyride because Deputy Pellen had left the door unlocked and the keys in the ignition again, is never a thought more than a gnat’s ass-hair away from his mind.

Pellen steps inside and pulls the screen door shut tight against the morning’s nippy air. He notices a plastic pink flamingo sticking out of the snow, and for a moment he imagines a summer day and his girlfriend laying naked in a field of plastic flamingos. He closes the front door and turns around.

Tessy is standing at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. The drab morning light stretching from the kitchen window behind her and the dimness of the living room, with its curtains still drawn, keep her face in a patch of shadow.

It hides her wrinkles, Sheriff Mayer thinks, but she still looks like a women craving a smoke. It’s in her posture. While what she really needs is some food, before a good wind carries her away. Mayer rubs his pancake stuffed belly and swallows back a healthy yawn, which probably could have doubled as a phenomenal burp, had he allowed it.

My brother Rolly is in the bathroom, Tessy starts. He told me that whatever I do, don’t go back down there. He saw them. I just caught some of the smell before he told me to get on upstairs and call the police. And that’s what I did.

Sheriff Mayer and Deputy Pellen are in well practiced observance of the situation. Mayer watches the old woman calmly while Pellen eyeballs the landscape.

The rocking chair seems a little out of place to the Deputy. Somehow he doubts that the old gal had the strength to put it here in the way of everything by herself. Maybe this brother Rolly of hers had moved it so that she could sit and watch the front door and wait for them.

It smelled like a slaughter house, Tessy Moody tells them in a hushed voice. That’s what it reminded me of. My husband worked forty years for the meat packing plant in Cooper City. He always had the stink of cold blood on him.

Deputy Pellen notices that the living room closet door is open a slight crack. He imagines someone hiding in there. Some knuckle faced, glue sniffing, backwoods holler kid and—he quickly slides the door open all the way. But no one is there. Just a red raincoat hanging all alone. And a rubber Halloween mask laying beneath it, pancake flat and face up. Dark black skin and a blood thirsty grin. It looks like some sort of crazed African zombie mask.

God how he hates Halloween. Thank goodness it’s over for another year.

Pellen kicks the mask away with the tip of his boot, back into the dark of the closet. Then he rolls the wobbly door shut tight.

We rent the place out, Tessy explains. The rent didn’t come for November and no one answered the phone. So we made the drive out here to see what the trouble might be. We live in Minton of course, so we don’t get out here all that much, unless there’s some problem. The house belonged to our cousin and we just haven’t felt right about selling it. Anyway, we knocked and knocked on the front and back doors and got no answer, so Rolly used the spare key and we came in.

Over the phone you said something about a room, Sheriff Mayer confirms.

In the basement, Tessy says, somehow nodding and shaking her head at the same time. The back room in the basement.

Can you show us, Pellen asks, unable to hide his growing impatience, brought on by the five cups of coffee and the sugar infused Apple Fritter he’d had for breakfast.

The powers been out, so it’s pitch black down there, Tessy informs them. She turns and moves to the table in the kitchen, not thinking to talk over her shoulder so they can hear her. There’s no window in the back room. So there’s no light.

Pellen gives Mayer a cautious glance and nods as they follow their hostess into the kitchen.

Tessy turns around with two flashlights. She offers one to the sheriff but obviously wants to keep the other.

Mayer and Pellen stare at her. No thank you, mam, Pellen says.

What’s that? Tessy isn’t sure she heard the deputy correctly. Her hearing has been somewhat on the blink as of late.

We have flashlights, mam, Pellen says in a louder tone and removes the Mag-Lite from his belt.

Oh, Tessy says. She puts the extra flashlight back on the table.

Sheriff Mayer gives Tessy what he considers to be his Comforting Face. I’m going to pay a quick visit on your brother, he politely states. Then you can show us what you found.

I’d appreciate that, Sheriff, he hasn’t come out since going in there, Tessy says. The bathroom is just down the hall, first door on the right.

The Sheriff steps down the hall to the bathroom door, glancing into the room across from it—a bedroom. And down the hall—two more rooms at the end, both doors standing open. He knocks on the bathroom door. This is Sheriff Mayer, could you open the door and let me see that you’re alright in there.

The sound of movement inside and then the sound of the door being unlocked, but not open.

Mayer takes the knob in his hands and turns it and opens the door. He steps inside and closes it behind him.

Deputy Pellen and Tessy stand in the kitchen facing each other. The faint sound of a clock can be heard ticking somewhere in the house.

I think it upset him more than he thought, Tessy says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He’s a big man, like our daddy was, but Rolly’s really very gentle inside."

Pellen watches her closely. Did you and your brother put that rocking chair where it is now between the kitchen and the living room or was it already there?

Oh no, we made sure not to touch anything once we found what was downstairs.

How about before you found what’s downstairs?

Tessy thinks for a moment, looking around the kitchen. Other than the flashlights here, we haven’t changed anything from the way it was when we arrived.

The bathroom door opens and Sheriff Mayer comes back out. He pulls the door closed behind him and steps back into the kitchen. He looks at Tessy to give her his assurance. Your brother is fine, he’s just shook up like you said. Why don’t you go ahead and show us where the room is now.

Tessy firms herself up and takes a deep breath. Then she turns and leads the way.

There is a three door entry area off of the corner of the kitchen, with a door to the back yard, another door to the garage, another into the kitchen and an open entry to the basement stairs. Tessy clicks on her flashlight and takes hold of the handrail. She starts down the steps.

I never liked the basement. Even as a little girl, she confesses, continuing to talk as they descend. The cold dampness just makes my bones hurt clean through. My brother Rolly and my other brother Efron used to try to get us girls down here so they could scare us half to death. My Aunt always kept her fruit preserves in the back room and I feared the times she would send me down here to get a jar of peaches or pickled rhubarb. I did love the pies she baked out of them though—

Tessy’s voice trails off as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. She stops and stands frozen on the very last step. Mayer and Pellen kindly pass her by.

It’s the back room, she tells them in a hushed voice. The fruit cellar is what my Aunt called it. I won’t go any further than this.

Mayer takes out his own Mag-Lite and aims it into the dark, across the open basement, to the other side. Where the gleam of yellow lands on a wilting white-gray door, closed and waiting there.

They’re all back in there, Tessy whispers.

Mayer and Pellen glance at each other. Then the sheriff starts across the cement floor and the deputy follows a quick step behind.

Tessy slowly peaks an eye around the corner of the stairwell wall, watching them.

Mayer stops at the door to the back room. Fruit cellar my butt, he thinks, probably more of a hooch cellar in its day. He sniffs the air. Something definitely smells funny.

Pellen shines his flashlight up and down the crook of the doorjamb, looking for any possible booby traps. This whole situation has started to heat up his left shin bone. (He’d been kicked in that leg by a horse when he was a boy, and whenever something just ain’t right his left shin starts to warm up like it’s on fire.) He wants to bend down and itch it something fierce, but he knows Sheriff Mayer will notice and have himself a good ol’ yuck about his Deputy’s magic shin bone, and let’s see if it can lead us to Amelia Earhart, and on and on. But Pellen isn’t in the mood to be teased this morning. So he’ll just let his shin bone burn. He still thinks this crazy woman and her unseen brother might be up to some no good criminal antics, like on the TV shows. Or they might be lunatic cop killers playing out one of their fantasies. You just never could tell. Because people are strange all over. Not only in big cities. They get just as wacky in small out of the way farm towns as they do any place else.

Sheriff Mayer takes the door knob and turns it and pushes and… .

The bottom of the door hits something solid and stops. It won’t open any further.

It won’t open all the way! Tessy calls out from her spot on the stairs.

Pellen abruptly turns, shooting the old lady in the face with the beam of his Mag-Lite. He is pissed and embarrassed for having been startled by her. He glares at her pruned up face, her eyes blinking at the bright light, until she disappears back around the wall. She is really lucky he didn’t have his gun drawn.

Kook, Pellen whispers, shaking his head. When he turns back, Sheriff Mayer is already squeezing himself through the gap in the door and into the room. Pellen slips in right behind him.

The fruit cellar smells just as the old woman had told them. Like a slaughterhouse. Like blood on cold cement.

Deputy Pellen takes out his handkerchief and presses it to his nose.

Both men stare at the floor in quiet disbelief, as their minds try to digest what their eyes are eating.

This ain’t real, Pellen whispers. This is some sort of Halloween prank that someone forgot to clean up.

In the beams of their flashlights they can see the slick of blood and body parts covering the concrete floor from wall to wall. Not just arms and legs and hands and feet, but eyes and ears and fingers and toes. All separated from each other and mixed together around the little room. Like some body part stew.

I feel sick, Pellen mutters and plugs his nose beneath his hanky. I think I’m gonna hurl my breakfast, Karl.

Don’t you dare tamper the evidence with your apple fritter and your fifteen cups of coffee, Sheriff Mayer warns. Or I’ll have you doing cavity searches for a year.

I can’t look, Pellen says, and turns his face to the ceiling.

Just pretend it’s a Halloween prank and count the heads, Mayer orders, as he roams his eyes around the entire room.

Pellen tries to force himself to look down but his eyes ricochet back to the ceiling. I can’t. There’s too much going on. It’s all mixed together.

Sheriff Mayer uses the trick he learned after dealing with his first car accident thirty-seven years ago. He tells his mind: it ain’t really real.

There’s something written on that wall over there, Mayer informs his deputy, as he feels around in his shirt and coat pockets for something he knows he forgot. Can you read what it says?

Pellen keeps his face aimed at the joist boards above while allowing his eyes to dip down for an attempt at seeing whatever the hell it is the sheriff wants him to see. But he goes too far and catches a glimpse of the grisly horror covering the floor. His eyes recoil immediately and he nails them back overhead.

Holy Christ, Pellen whispers. I can’t look down.

Just tell your mind it ain’t real, Mayer reminds his deputy.

We need to call the Feds on this one, Karl, Pellen warns. This is way too big for our britches.

I just want to know what it says, Mayer explains, shining his flashlight at the wall.

You want me to go radio for the coroner? Pellen asks with hope.

How many heads did you count? Sheriff Mayer asks as he starts to make his way toward the other side of the room, carefully placing each step between fingers, toes, hands, feet, arms, legs, eyes, ears—

I’m not, Pellen says, his Adam’s apple rising and falling between his collar bone and chin. I’m not counting any heads. I can’t do it. I puked when those dogs tore up Emma Jensen’s cat. Remember that?

Six, Mayer tells him. Six heads. I already counted. It wasn’t that difficult. Now just stand there and don’t you puke.

I’m gonna hurl.

Don’t you hurl either, Mayer warns. Remember your training. Balance the real with the pretend, or some crap like that. Think of your gal naked in a field of ripe tomatoes or whatever it is you do.

What are you doing? Pellen almost whines, as he tries to imagine his girlfriend again in a field of plastic flamingos on a warm summer day. Naked and peaceful beneath a loving sun.

I’m gonna see what’s on that wall, Sheriff Mayer states. I can’t believe you let me forget my glasses. He has almost reached the opposite wall of the fruit cellar. He stops and leans in toward it, balancing his weight on the balls and toes of his feet. He shines his flashlight directly upon it and squints the words into view.

The writing on the cement wall is written in smeared blood. It reads: I AM ONE

I am one, Sheriff Mayer whispers and scratches his gray head.

What’s it say? Pellen asks.

I am one, Mayer repeats. Don’t that beat all.

Do you think it’s a clue?

Sheriff Mayer is backing himself up without turning around. Trying to exit in the same footsteps he made coming in. I think we might have ourselves one of those psychopathic types, he states matter-of-factly.

Just be careful, Karl, Pellen warns. If you slip and fall, I’m gonna puke for sure, and that will definitely tamper the evidence.

Sheriff Mayer just avoids stepping on a ear and instead places his foot crookedly upon a tongue. He realizes his misfortune.

Dang it all, Sheriff Mayer whispers.

And falls.

Upstairs in the bathroom… .

Empty prescription pill bottles and a smattering of pills lay here and there across the bathroom counter and sink.

A big red smiley face is drawn on the bathroom mirror in lipstick.

Rolly Moody sits on the rim of the bathtub, staring at his vomit in the toilet. Colorful little chunks of undigested breakfast float in the water. The window is open behind him letting cold fresh air drift in. He had noticed the mess of pills and lipstick and acknowledged their oddness, but compared to the horror show he had seen downstairs, the messy sight of the bathroom does not seem all that much out of place.

It occurs to Rolly that he has been quietly sobbing to himself for quite some time now. There is a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

Rolly, his sister’s voice comes softly from the other side.

Rolly knows he needs to get up and unlock the door before she goes off the deep end. It takes her awhile, but once she goes over that edge of emotionality it will take all his effort to get her calmed back down. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. To get him out of his own despair. Because then someone will need him, and he will have to focus on that.

But Rolly can’t seem to get the images out of his head. They have stained his brain. And the smell is still thick in his sinus cavity. Burrowed in and hunkered down. Clinging to his olfactory receptors. Rolly blows his nose again into his handkerchief as hard as he can. But he is dry. There is nothing to expel. And yet the stink remains the same. Like it is hiding inside him. The smell of slow rotting flesh and cold damp blood has found a home in his head.

Outside the bathroom door, the nervous and thin creature known as Tessy Moody stands shiver shaking in her winter boots and coat. She is waiting for the sheriff and deputy to come back upstairs, or for her brother to come out of the bathroom. Rolly knows all too well how she hates to be alone too long. The motion of the rocking chair had been keeping her calm, but now she doesn’t know how much longer she can hold it together.

Rolly, Tessy calls, and brushes her rusty knuckles against the door. Rolly, do you want me to get you some Pepto Bismol from my purse in the truck?

Tessy suddenly notices a very fat cat sitting in the shadows at the other end of the hallway. She thinks it looks frightened, and an odd thought pops into her head.

This chubby pussy probably saw what happened in this house. And it probably knows how all those bodies got chopped up in the basement.

But it will never be able to tell us.

Tessy turns toward it and squats down as far as her creaking old knees will allow. Here kitty kitty kitty, she calls. Come to Tessy.

For the moment Tessy Moody has found something to keep her mind off of other things.

The room has a smell. Like Milk Duds and piss.

The Good Dr. Keller Pike likes to be called the Good Dr. Keller Pike for two reasons: because he’s not a horrible doctor and because he’s not a brilliant doctor. But he is most assuredly a good doctor, and he wants people to know he’s trustworthy, and yet—has his limits. Because he’s had problems with this in other places and he doesn’t want to repeat any past mistakes here at his new location. He wants to be upfront with his abilities without false self promotion and without frightening people. And so he thinks that being referred to as the Good Dr. Keller Pike will say it all in a simple way. And keep it all on a manageable level. Just the way he likes it.

Dim light and a swinging silver pocket watch, one his father left behind. These are the tools he needs to put someone into the suggestive state of hypnosis. To start the process of ending their misery. To help them disassemble and reassemble. To help them pick up the pieces and put themselves back together. Brick by brick. Layer by layer. Soul by soul.

I am going to count backward from five, and when I reach zero, the Good Dr. Pike says, in his gentle, soothing voice.  . . . you will be deeply and soundly asleep.

The swinging pocket watch glints in a sliver of dim light. And the good Dr. Keller Pike counts backward.

Five… four… three… two… one… .

The leafless branches of sleeping trees stretch upward like dark twisted arms, climbing over each other as they reach and claw at the gray gravel sky above. Bent, curved, and knotted they rise, seemingly dead to the eye. For miles and miles they go on and on. By and by.

A brown Dodge Coronet Station Wagon, made ten years ago in 1967, moves along the quiet small town street. It slows and pulls into the driveway of the white lap-sided house on the corner. The engine is shut off and a harmless tinking noise can be heard as it starts to cool down.

The driver’s door opens and Raven Cathmore gets out. She removes her bag of groceries from the back end, shuts the door with her butt, and makes her way along the walk and up the steps to the front door. She balances the grocery bag on her hip as she opens the screen and tries to get the key into the knob. Inside the phone starts to ring and Raven drops her keys.

Shit.

Some obnoxious cans of Happy Cat are trying to swap places with the half gallon of milk in her grocery bag, causing it to tear but not break open. She manages to hold them all together and not lose even one item as she cradles the bag, bends at her knees, and pinky scoops her key ring from the porch edge. Just a hair further and her keys would have missed the porch and disappeared down through the basement window grate and she would have been screwed. But some gracious God had smiled upon her, this time. Next time who knows? One can never assume what fate the Gods have in store for their hapless Weebles as they Wobble about in the eternal game of games.

Raven connects the key to the hole and sinks it in and turns the knob. She hurries into the house, through the living room and to the kitchen, where a very fat cat lays spread out and waiting on the counter by the ringing wall phone.

Raven sits her cargo down on the kitchen table and turns back. She grabs the phone just as the restless groceries finish tearing open the bag and come tumbling out, dropping to the floor like the undigested stomach contents of some disemboweled creature.

Fudge, Raven mutters as she steps back to the kitchen table with the phone receiver wedged between her ear and shoulder: Hello! She feigns pleasantry and starts to pick her groceries up and put them back on the table. She is one hundred percent certain that her eggs did not survive the fall because there is a disproportionate allocation of weight inside the carton now. Like a bag of guts on a seesaw.

Hello! Raven loudly repeats into the phone.

Still no response from the caller. But someone is there. She can hear them breathing.

I can hear you breathing, Raven says as she stacks the last of the groceries back on the table. The five cans of cat food, which had been the elicit instigators in the hi-jinx that lead to the death of some or all of her innocent eggs, smile at her with Happy Cat faces. Her own cat had found a way to get revenge upon her for having only dry food for him to eat over the past three days. He had voodoo cursed her eggs, as only cats can do.

Raven stands up and steps back to the phone and her furry puss setting on the counter. His name is RK, which stands for Road Kill. That’s the name that her boyfriend had given him as some form of reverse psychology trick upon the universe. ‘In hopes that it might keep him from being run’d over,’ he’d said in his pretend country bumpkin accent: ‘Because small town country cats have a better than good chance of becoming road kill in these here parts, and a proper name just might be the impetus to counter that particular defect of nature.’

Raven misses the sound of her truelove’s voice. Country bumpkin imbued or not. It has been just under a year now and will be another three months at least. She has not seen or spoken to him, only cards and letters between them. Some with photos of herself for him, crayon drawings of himself for her. Because that’s all they allowed him to have in jail. The thought of seeing anything more than that, without being able to touch him, was too much for Raven. She refused to rest her eyes upon him or hear his voice in her ears until she could also feel his hands and skin upon her. Maybe this is selfish. She doesn’t know. But she can’t bare it any other way. So what if others don’t understand. Humans could build ships to the stars but they couldn’t comprehend the reasoning of their own hearts and minds. And they never would. Because the heart is a tattered kite, tethered to the earth and twisted by the wanting wind. Just as the mind is a terrible thing. And has always been a liar. A joker with no ultimate purpose but to fool the world and keep it in confusion. Two things she does know for certain—she can’t control her heart and she can never trust her mind.

Raven stares at her cat. All she has right now to keep her company is her pussy. And sensing that he is being scrutinized, RK ogles back at her with simultaneously smug and forlorn eyes. As if to say: I hate you. Please pet me. I hate you. Please pet me.

Raven can’t resist petting him, but first she intends to hang up the phone and stop the heavy breathing from the other side.

I’m gonna eat you alive! The caller suddenly blurts with a rabid moaning guile. I’m gonna eat your guts out through your pussy and… .

Raven hangs up the phone. She stares at her undemonstrative feline, sprawled out upon the kitchen counter. He isn’t