Twisted Tears

By Stan Taylor

Kit Carrone, a beautiful, high profile detective based out of Miami, meets her ultimate challenge when she stumbles upon the crime of the century. Due to one bad choice during her investigation, she now has all the time in the world to review the cases which continue to haunt her. With an adversary that turns simple lives into a twisted, multi-storied, psychotic puzzle, Kit's new life will never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathon Jones
• Release date: Jul 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393319153

Stan Taylor

From Jonathon Jones Publishing: "Born in a small, Midwestern city, Stan Taylor spent most of his life with a blue collar work ethic deep under his skin, and uncanny, sometimes twisted stories trapped within his imagination.  Only after his retirement did he ever think of putting his multitude of little worlds on paper. From mystery and mayhem to fantasy and love, retirement is about to take on a whole new meaning with this author. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."

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Twisted Tears

by

Stan Taylor

&

Jonathon Jones

Copyright 2014 by Stan Taylor and Jonathon Jones

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and/or sharing of any part of this book without the expressed written consent of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy of the author’s intellectual property.

If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Additional Credits:

-Edited and Published by Jonathon Jones

-Cover image courtesy of Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Disclaimer:

Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. No implied endorsements exist if any of those terms are used.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

TWISTED TEARS

REPUTATIONS

CASE FILE #1: DESHAWN AND JALEN

Fast Forward

CASE FILE #2: MARCIA AND NICOLE

Fast Forward to the Interrogation Room

CASE FILE #3: JOE AND ROB

Screeeeeech!!!

The Interrogation Room

CASE FILE #4: NATHAN AND BECKY

Fast Forward: The Local Georgia Jail

CASE FILE #5: HENRY AND THE GALS

Later that evening…

THE TIES THAT BIND

CASE FILE #6: JUAN

MEETING HIGGINS

THE VERY BOTTOM

WHILE HIGGINS WAS GONE

CONFRONTATION

Meanwhile…

FAST FORWARD TO THE PRESENT

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART ONE

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART TWO

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART THREE

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART FOUR

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART FIVE

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART SIX

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART SEVEN

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART EIGHT

MADNESS

THE HIGGINS BOOK, PART NINE

ONE YEAR LATER

A NEW BEGINNING

Chapter One:

Reputations

Kit, wake your sorry ass up.  It was the main prison guard, with her two impatient cohorts waiting to take me to my shower.

My own personal alarm clock from hell beckoned, and listening to that three hundred pound grizzly was deafening to the ears.  Her voice eerily bellowed like an archaic freight train rumbling through the Grand Canyon.

You know the routine.  Turn around and back away from the cell door.  As it opened, her two escorts held my arms with the force of a mule that just got castrated with rust-laden scissors.

Hold still, Kit.  You can take the easy road or we can play hardball, said the monstrous living corpse, who was singeing my nose hairs with her breath.  It was strangely reminiscent of the ocean.

I shivered in disgust thinking about it, but it didn’t last long.  My mind was abruptly snapped from its trance as the handcuffs were placed on my wrists and forcefully clasped behind me.

Damn it, loosen them up a little! I demanded.

Her sidekicks snickered and told me I wasn’t so tough after all.  I’ll show them tough.  My wrists were firmly behind me, but my leg shackles were not on yet.  So I turned to the left and slid the insole of my foot down the skinny one’s shin.  Snap.

I then turned to the right and head butted the one that looked like she had leprosy.  That is one ugly mama.

Before I even knew what happed, Joanne, who is the body guard of all the guards, had me in a choke hold that took my breath away.  Literally.

When I fell to the ground I felt the shackles go around my ankles.  Out of the corner of my eye I watched the blood trickle from my nose after it forcefully became one with the concrete floor.

My laughing spell soon began when I saw that ugly dartboard queen trying to stop her head wound with the palm of her hand.  To pour salt on her wound, I sprung to my feet and lunged right towards her.  I scoffed as she proceeded to pee her pants.

"Oh, girlfriend, if I can easily scare you that much, you will be a party pack for these bull dykes in here."  My words cut her.  Deeply.  She glared a look that could have killed the specter of death itself, but that’s about all she could do since everyone was watching.

Only a few short minutes passed after that look, and then the tensions within the cramped, sweat-filled cell were finally eased.

The fiasco was finally over with, and the next thing I knew I was being led down a narrow hallway, through the mainstream of the population.

It was like the early risers had just seen a ghost.  As the guards held my arms, I turned to see the horrific gazes of the prisoners looking my direction.  Some would cower on their knees, and others would run to the back of their cells and scream obscenities.

I thought it was amusing.  After all, I don’t think I have the look of a monster from another world.  Or do I?

A slight smirk covered the lower portion of my face as I started to contemplate the actions of my strange audience.  Then my thoughts were quickly interrupted, but in a good way.

You see, we had reached the end of our journey, but it was here that I found heaven.  I stood in front of my ecstasy.  My watery release.  It was one of the only ways any of us could get sanctioned pleasure in this oversized tin can.

Each shower is a cage in itself that is about one third the size of my cell.  These are the special ones.  For people like me.

Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be alone here.  As expected, five more guards showed up.  A few minutes later, six or seven more popped into view.

Kit, get in the cage, Joanne sternly barked.  And turn around.  I knew that I was outnumbered, so I thought I’d better take the easy way out this time.

As I felt the shackles slide off and the handcuffs released, I awkwardly noticed the anticipation of the guards.  Once the cage closed behind me Joanne told me to strip, and then every pair of eyes were focused on yours truly.

Who could blame them?  Except for me, just about every woman sentenced in this hell hole is either a crack addict or a meth-head.  Their lifestyle choices clearly showed the disrespect they had for their bodies.

Many have a tremendous amount of tattoos that do not enhance their bodies’ one iota.  Others were crudeness personified, and lacked any moral or social graces.

Then came the body shapes.  Yuck with a capital Y.  If they weren’t ridiculously fat and out of shape, they looked like they should be hooked up to a bunch of feeding tubes.  I never felt so proud of myself for looking how I looked until I came here.

I mean, seriously.  Here I am, thirty-one years old, and in my prime of my life.  My body is ripped, I have abs that a semi could drive over and damage its front end on, and my thirty-four inch breasts are as firm as a new baseball.

At five foot eleven my frame towers over many, and my legs are long and golden tan from the courtyard sun.  Don’t even get me started on my hair.  Coal black, in a shade that would make women from Southeast Asia jealous.

Also, unlike the cigarette stained, off-their-tracks train cars of my fellow inmates, my straight, pearl white teeth could easily make new snowfall seem like it had been peed on.

Was I arrogant, or just honest?  In here it didn’t matter.  It was confidence, and only confidence, that reigned supreme.

My mind drifted over these thoughts.  They brought me towards a dream-like state while the water glistened down my youthful face, but then I was rudely interrupted.

Open the little door, Kit.  I jerked my head towards the side, focusing on the eight inch panel that opens to the outside of the cage.  On the other end Joanne handed me a bar of soap and a towel.

As I lathered up, I noticed that every female guard had a look that exceeded both desire and envy.  Especially when I was cleaning my more sensual areas.  It quickly became visual chaos.

Many of the guards were touching themselves in a way that would make the publisher of Hustler magazine blush.  Others were talking and giggling like little girls looking at their first boy crush.  Yeah, like they ever liked boys.  I don’t think so.

While I was spraying myself, I heard the expected cat calls, and watched the obscene gestures out of the corner of my eye.  So I decided to turn my head and see which guards were making jackasses out of themselves.

My facial expression must have been penetrating.  Their demeanor suddenly went into all-business mode and their rosy faces quickly turned the color of alabaster.  Am I feared that much in this world of misfits and murderers?

Oh yeah, I’m in for murder.  Me.  Supposedly I killed a man, but the odd thing is…I don’t remember it.  Not that I could anyway.  Moments of reflection in this hell-hole were scarcer than you might think, and the guards made sure of it.

Get dressed, bellowed the Barry White-like voice of Joanne, the burly bouncer of the bitches.

After drudgingly putting on my neon orange jumpsuit, my ankles were once again shackled, and my wrists were firmly bound by the steel bear traps that they call handcuffs.

On the way back to my cell I was led through the dining area, which was chock full of prisoners.  It was seven in the morning, and breakfast was served like clockwork every day at this ungodly hour.

As I walked, or should I say shuffled, every pair of eyes were focused on me like a leech on a vampire after its nightly feed.

You could hear the clang of trays being dropped on the floor and the quick moving of benches as if they were mere pillows.  It was like a grove of orange trees got caught in a tornado.  I saw a brand new sea of jumpsuits part with every single step that I made.

Obviously, I was not allowed to eat with the rest of these girly garbage disposals because I was, after all, considered extremely dangerous.  It was laughable, and my mind was often boggled because of it.

I seriously didn’t know what they were all worried about, but that was the real kicker.  That illusion is what helped to protect me.  It kept people away most of the time, which was good because most of the time all I really wanted was peace.

That is something that could only be found in the solitude of my cell.  After my jaunt through the fashion impaired masses, I finally returned to it.

Once my shackles and handcuffs were released, I saw that the room had a welcomed intruder.  It was a tray of breakfast sitting on my bedside.

However, food was second on my agenda.  First I had to work for my prize by keeping this body of mine in shape.  Two hundred sit-ups and one hundred push-ups.  It was my routine, but not because I wanted it to be.  Due to circumstances beyond my control, it had to be.

When I was finally done, it was time to tempt my taste buds.  The food was tolerable.  Barely, but that was par for the course.  Biscuits and corn beef was the specialty of the morning, which it seemed to be on many mornings.  Special was a word that no longer had meaning.  Not in here.

As for our drinks, they were pale compared to what we had in the real world.  Today mine seemed especially terrible.  The orange juice was bitter, but not in a way that was aged or too acidic.

When I slammed down my glass, I noticed white powder on the bottom of the inside.  Someone had spiked it.

"Guard, guard! I yelled.  Three of them came running, including Joanne.  I’ve been drugged!"

One of the guards suggested that the woman who serves in the cafeteria was probably responsible.

"Kit, she has told a lot of us that she will have you one day."  Then Joanne stepped up.

"Don’t worry, I’ll have a word with her when she retrieves the dishes.  She is the only one who serves you every day, so it has to be her."  Then she took my empty tray and placed it outside, on the floor next to my cell.

Overall, I have to admit that she’s rather interesting.  To say the least.  As a guard, she’s pretty bad-ass and seems to be the only one who isn’t afraid of me.  Funny enough, she’s also the only one whose words I can actually trust in here.

This time was no different.  My safety was now her concern, and she managed to prove it.  A short while later I heard a lot of commotion in the background.  I was very drowsy due to what I drank, so all I could make out was an assortment of yelling that I wasn’t able to comprehend.  Then everything went dark.

My eyes opened, heavily, with my body shaken four hours later by the burly Joanne.

Hey Kit, seems like that bitch drugged you and was going to rape you.

Thanks for having my back, I replied.  "I owe you.  Big time."

The next morning, the routine would have been the same.  That’s how prison is.  But this time I was extremely leery of my server.  I guess I should have always been since I’m the only one in here who gets food served in her cell by a desperate lap licker.

What floored me the most was that she wasn’t fired.  Great, I thought to myself.  Now I had to look at her ugly mug every day and be paranoid at the same time.  I wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, so maybe I just had to get used to it.  Or did I?

Like clockwork, she made her way to the outside of my cell.  Describing her to an outsider would be simple enough.  An old, plump raisin would be more than adequate.

When she served my tray through the small opening reserved for food delivery, I should have expected what came next.  I heard her whisper point blank, "I almost got you.  You are going to be mine."

Tactfully and jokingly I decided to play along and whispered right back.  I can’t wait.

Two hours passed, and then she showed up again, this time with a bouncy little step that reminded me of a rhino tap dancing to a Bee Gee’s song.  When she arrived, my tray was casually handed to her by yours truly through the narrow opening.

I started flirting with her and saw how enthused she was to receive the attention.  Knowing fully well what I was doing, I mentioned to her that I would massage her temples so she could feel my soft hands.

She was at a point of no return as I stood there, massaging her with her back turned to the cell.

Oh, that feels so good, she moaned.  Let me kiss you.  It was at this point that I feared my charade had just come back to bite me on the ass.

So my hand made its way to my panties, where I had just hidden my weapon of choice.  It was a whittled down piece of sharpened and flattened wire that I bent and scraped ever since I had been here.

A hole in the bottom of my mattress revealed it to me, unexpectedly, when I dropped something on the floor soon after I made my arrival.  It spoke to me, constantly reminding me that I might need it one day.  Today was that day.

One more moan escaped from her lips, and then I sliced her from ear to ear.  She dropped quickly, like a lead-weighted person pushed off a plane with no parachute.

Was I wrong?  After all, it was her fault for starting it.

Which seems to be a reoccurring theme.  For two weeks now all I’ve been getting is trouble.  I’ve had to constantly retaliate.  No wonder all these prison princesses are so afraid of me.

It’s funny when I look back at it.  When all of the crap was thrown into this ungodly jet engine we call prison I was the unlucky one wearing white.

Yet, thankfully, it wasn’t always that bad.  Actually, just two weeks ago I fit right in with the rest of the inmates.  Then, one afternoon when we were at our tables eating lunch, the inevitable happened.

The story is easy to remember since it repeats itself every day in the minds of everyone who sees me.  It also starts off rather simply.  Peaceful, actually.

You see, back then many of the women wanted to be close to me, for obvious reasons.  Although I can’t get too big of a head since a few did want to chat just to pass the time.

On that particular day I was eating lunch with a gal that was in for vehicular manslaughter.  She was a rarity, because I don’t think it was intentional.

We were really enjoying each other’s company when, all of a sudden, Winnie, a woman of huge proportions, slapped my friend upside the head.  Then she told her to leave, informing her that she had taken her seat.

Afraid that she might be harmed, she did as she was told.  I was sad to see her go, but I understood why she left.  After all, the monster hovering over her was a sight to be reckoned with.

I shiver just having to think about her again, even though describing her wouldn’t be much of a chore.  Winnie was at least four hundred pounds, but had no trouble flinging that ocean of motion around wherever she needed to go.

In addition, she was as black as the crows in an Alfred Hitchcock film, and her skin color matched her disposition.  It was that of a black widow spider being sprayed by a hose filled with vinegar.  She was, truly, that kind of bitch.

Since she was feared by everyone, I knew this wasn’t going to end well.  So all I could do was grit my teeth and try to play it cool.

When she finally squashed herself down beside me, I could smell the unwashed odor of rancid sweat hiding between every fold.  It seemed to be seeping through every last one of her pores, and my crinkled nose definitely knew it.

It was the first time I had seen her up close, and it was obvious how she was able to use her size to her advantage.  Supposedly, she had used her leverage to be with almost every woman in the joint.

Actually, the crooked guards made it rather easy for her.  They were so scared of her that they would unlock the cell doors of the prisoners that Winnie wanted to be with.

I wasn’t about to be a part of that club, and made it a point not to make eye contact.  It was difficult not to, because when she slid down beside me I could feel her obtuse thunder thighs purposefully touch my legs.  It bothered me.  A lot.

Then she called me honey and began to rub her stubby finger sausages up and down my arm.  I kept eating, pretending not to hear her or feel her uncomfortable touch.

What happened next was bold, even for her.  She slid her hand down my thigh, and proceeded to rub my crotch.  In a moment of panic, I focused all of my power into one arm and thrust the end of my plastic Spork right into her eye.

Her screams were so loud that I thought the sound barrier would be broken.  I looked at the other prisoners around me, and you could see the amazement on their faces.  No one could actually believe that someone finally stood up to her.

Before I could even realize the consequences of my actions, six guards hurried to the scene and firmly escorted me back to my cell.  It was smooth sailing after that, for a little while at least.

For the next two days my cellmates high fived me like I scored the winning touchdown at the Superbowl.  I received pats on the back from just about everyone.  Just like that I was the most liked person in captivity.

Sadly, it didn’t last.  Fame has its price.  It always does.

My victory decided to smack me in the face, and it all started when I was assigned to work in the laundry room.  When I approached the lead worker, I was greeted with Bitch, you’re going to pay for what you did to my friend.  Then she walked off in a pre-menstrual huff while looking back at me with a psychotic glare.

Here we go again, I whispered to myself after a long, drawn-out sigh.

By the way, Josephine was her name.  About five foot four with an awkwardly wide booty, her ridiculously small arms failed to match the rest of her mix-n-match frame.

As for her heritage, it was commonplace within these walls.  She looked Hispanic, and tried to act tough every waking second, like her life depended on it.  Over-compensation was her forte.

I knew she was trouble, and that she would come looking for me when the day was through.  Nothing I could do would stop the inevitable.  Not in here.

When the time finally came, it all played out like a B-movie in slow motion.  It was time to wrap it up, and Josephine and I were the last ones in the laundry room.

Without any warning she quickly grabbed my arm.  Her grip was so tight that I thought my blood was going to burst right through my wrist.  I was slightly impressed because she didn’t look that strong, but my admiration wouldn’t last.  It couldn’t.

When I happened to look down and at her other hand, I saw that she was holding a shiv.  That’s