Killer Scents

Killer

Scents

Adelle Laudan

Dedicated to…

All of the lovely people

In the 30’s Room

I’ve come to cherish as friends.

You know who you are…

KILLER SCENTS

~Mykaela Baxter

Copyright©2012

KILLER SCENTS

Chapter One

Silence.

Not even the rustle of leaves intruded on the sinister concerto playing over and over in his mind. Only one obstacle stood in the way of his cleverly orchestrated plan: a rather intrusive beagle that barked at everything and anything. He’d come too far to have a four-legged shit machine jeopardize it all.

It was much easier than he imagined. The stupid mutt didn’t hesitate to snatch the strip of beef jerky he held between the fence boards. It took less than a minute before Shithead lay on the ground, frothing at the mouth while a lethal dose of pesticides shut his yap for good.

His owner’s reaction had been an added bonus. An hour or so later, the kid, no more than twelve years old, kicked a can up the road toward the house. Several minutes after the boy disappeared inside, ear-splitting cries filled the cul-de-sac.

Too bad I don’t have any more of that jerky. I’d shut the kid up, too.

He diverted his attention to the familiar whine of his next victim’s relic Pinto  rounding the corner. Sandra Bedows parked out front of her tidy bungalow and opened the door. She shifted her massive belly to the side, extracting herself from behind the steering wheel and then lumbered up the pathway to her house. The swish of her overstuffed polyester pants rubbing together kept perfect rhythm with her labored breaths.

The acrid stench of her sweat assaulted him as she passed the cluster of bushes he hid behind. It took every ounce of restraint not to jump out and put a gun to her head while she unlocked the door.

Obscured in the shadows of the house, he opened a leather-bound journal to the bookmarked page, and then followed the neatly written lines with his finger to the bottom where he paused.

Happy with the way the room looked for her co-worker’s celebration, I slipped away to freshen up. I wasn’t gone ten minutes and returned to find Sandra Bedows cramming the last corner of my beautiful cake in her mouth.

The woman offered no apology, and when I asked her to leave, she charged and pinned me to the wall with her mounds of fat. Luckily, the first of my guests arrived and were able to talk her down and convince her to leave.

Do I have to worry about her coming after me again? If she does, surely I’m as good as dead...

With a definitive nod, he tucked the book safely away and straightened his stance. He then shrugged the thick strap from his shoulder to gain access to a long, black, cylindrical case carried on his back. He pulled out a most exquisite fuchsia azalea protected by a sleeve of heavy Cellophane.

He drew a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

Calm down. You’ve been over this a hundred times. Stick to the plan and nothing can go wrong.

A quick look up and down the street assured him he was safe to step out of the shadows. He quickly rounded the corner of the house and knocked on her front door.

Ready or not...it’s time to die.

The curtain moved aside enough to garner eye contact, and he forced a smile. The lock clicked, and the door opened a crack.

“Can I help you?”

Her bright-eyed gaze settled on the flower presented to her.

“Delivery for a Ms. Sandra Bedows. You’ll need to sign for it, ma’am.” He bedazzled her with a smile, all the while gritting his teeth.

Her cheeks stained pink. She fluttered her eyelashes. “For me? I can’t imagine who it’s from.”

Just open the door, you fat piece of shit.

His heart beat so loudly he feared she’d hear it and grow suspicious.

Sandra stepped out from behind the door, now wearing some kind of long dress. No, it was a tent decorated with big yellow and red flowers.

“Where do I sign?”

He dipped his hand into his bag and closed his fingers around the cool metal of his 9mm pistol. Without warning, he pushed his way inside and kicked the door closed behind him.

Sandra stood frozen, her gaze trained on his gun.

“Do exactly what I say and things will go much easier for you.”  He pressed the muzzle to her sweaty temple. “Trust me, you don’t want to piss me off.”

Her knees buckled and she dropped. The woman hit the floral-patterned carpetand grabbed hold of his pant leg, tears streaming down her flushed face unchecked. “Please...take anything you want. Oh, God! I beg of you...don’t rape me!”

An involuntary shudder travelled through his body at the mere suggestion, prompting him to take out a roll of duct tape, rip off a piece, and pull it taut over her mouth.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’ll get exactly what you deserve and it has nothing to do with me trying to find your twat.”

Sandra fell back in a big puddle of fat. Repulsed, he took rope out of his bag and nudged her with the toe of his boot. “On your feet!”

It took a couple of attempts for her to stand. Once she did, he backed her up against the sofa. “Lay down on your back.”

Every movement took monumental effort until she sat at the edge of a well-worn sofa, pleading with tear- filled eyes, her mousy-brown hair plastered to the sides of her face. His patience grew thin and he forcefully persuaded her to stretch out on her back. Her flab melded with the tired checked pattern of the couch, making him gag.

With no regard for the pain he was causing, he tied her ankles as close together as her tree-trunk legs would allow. Folds of skin pooled at her swollen, purple feet, and he swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth, quickly manoeuvring her fat and tied her wrists together over her.

It took a few seconds to calm down and wipe the sweat from his forehead. He stretched to his full height and perused the room, noticing most of the faded, baby-shit brown curtains were drawn.