The old man rocked in his chair and sipped cold beer, the brown bottle sweating condensation which cooled his fingers. He’d lived in Muddy Lake always and had never seen such commotion, taken aback by the reporters and television crews and outsiders, and even a small group of women who’d been protesting at the courthouse since the trial had begun, waving their hand-painted signs and chanting, through driving rain or hot August sun.
It had been a long morning, both sides offering summation and then the judge had charged the jury and now everyone waited. “You can feel it in the air,” the old man said, just as the Fiddelson kid ran up and waved.
“They’re back, Mr. Merchant, the jury’s back.” He ran off to alert others. The old man finished his beer, left his rocker and crossed the street, then climbed the steps to the courthouse. Inside he took his seat and fanned himself with the Muddy Lake Chronicle. The air conditioning had failed that morning, the courtroom a sauna, the crowd loud and boisterous, speculating and pointing at accused and victim, who sat up front at opposite tables.
The bailiff appeared and the courtroom shushed and the proceeding commenced. Judge Harrington banged his gavel: “Has the jury reached its verdict?” he said, anxious to end this ordeal.
The Jury Foreman spoke: “We have your honor. We find the defendant, William Holder, not guilty on all charges.”
A loud wail penetrated the courtroom and all eyes focused on the young woman seated at the prosecutor’s table. She stood up, faced the exonerated, mouth agape, then turned to the jury.
“You call this justice?” Her hands shook and her body trembled.
“Order in my court,” the judge said.
“That animal raped me. He held a knife to my throat and forced himself upon me. I want justice.” She choked on her sobs as her chest heaved. “I want justice.”
“There will be order in my court, Miss Angel.” The judge banged his gavel. “I understand your anguish, and I’m surprised at the verdict, but please, refrain or I’ll have you removed.”
“How can they let him just walk away?” Sara Angel said, pausing for a moment, her eyes closed. “He beat and raped and humiliated me and you just let him walk away?” She turned to Holder. “I knew I’d never get justice in Muddy Lake. I knew it...”
“Ms. Angel, I’m warning you…”
“But you’ll suffer worse than I suffer now and justice will be done.” She then addressed the jury. “And you, Mr. Jury Foreman, you’re just as evil and guilty as he. You could’ve stuck him away for years, but you let him walk. You, too, will pay.”
Holder sneered: “Hey babe, why don’t you buy me dinner tonight and maybe I’ll forgive you.” She turned and spat at him and marched out of the courtroom, which then exploded in noise and excitement. The gavel banged, the judge demanded order and spoke:
“Though this jury apparently ignored the evidence presented, Mr. Holder, I have no other choice but to free you. But I know, as I have seen repeatedly in my years presiding over this courtroom, that you’ll be here again. And then, I’ll throw the full weight of the law at you.”
Holder grinned as he thanked the judge and readied to leave. Reporters descended on the badly shaven man. Asked for a response to the verdict, Holder smiled, “I always said I was innocent and I got nothing else to say.” The throng shouted but Holder ignored them and made his way out a back door.
Susan Clearview waited in front of the courthouse hoping to catch Holder but spotted instead the jury foreman.
“Come on, Joe,” she said, her cameraman following behind, and approached Arthur Piddle coming down the courtroom steps.
“Mr. Piddle,” Clearview asked, “even though the District Attorney gave proof the victim had been beaten and raped, you still found Mr. Holder not guilty. Would you like to comment?”
Piddle cleared his throat. “It was the jury’s findings that the so-called victim, a convicted prostitute, and thief, enticed Holder back to her home to rob him, and when her plan went awry attacked and nearly blinded Mr. Holder by spraying a chemical in his eyes. She met him at a bar, drinking heavily, witnesses said, wearing just a man’s long shirt and sneakers, nothing underneath and she invited him home, an obvious ploy. Good Christian women don’t do these things. Maybe she should consider a new line of employment and be more discriminating in the men she chooses to bring home, particularly if she’s robbing them blind.” He smiled.
“Mr. Piddle, Mr. Holder had a past record for sexual assault. Aren’t you concerned that he, in fact, did assault and rape her?”
“I never claimed Mr. Holder an angel, he’s horrific, that’s obvious, however, we never knew of his past: he never took the stand, and, of course, we had no access to newspapers. Unfortunately, the prosecution failed to make their case. There were some jurors who held out for conviction, who said that this man was guilty, but I persuaded them to see the truth.”
The reporter pressed on. “Are you saying, Mr. Piddle, that a woman’s outfit justifies sexual assault? Are you blaming the victim for this attack?” Arthur Piddle smiled.
“But that’s the point. I don’t believe there was an attack: the ‘victim’ seduced Mr. Holder, thought she could steal his money and cried rape to cover her crimes. Blame the victim? No, though she has been victimized, victimized by a society with no moral strongholds. We’re all victims, Miss Reporter, yourself included. Here you are baking in this heat when you should be home baking cookies.”
“Thank you, Mr. Piddle. This is Susan Clearview at the Muddy Lake Courthouse. Cut. That’s a take, John.”
“Good, let’s get outta here.”
“Just give me a minute.” She called to Piddle and when he turned, walked over. “Mr. Piddle, I think your attitude towards women is disgusting and retrograde.”
Piddle smiled. “Well, Mrs. Clearview...”
“That’s Ms...”
“Of course. Well, Ms. Clearview, I’m not interested what you think of my views. Though you media folks think you know everything, I don’t think you do. God-fearing Americans have been quiet for a long time now, but no more, you’ll see. We’ve watched our society deteriorate as you weaken this country. We’re weak because you tell our children God is wrong, that the values my parents and grandparents lived by are wrong. So, I don’t really care what you think about me, because I know you’ve been corrupted by Satan and those who do his bidding.”
Clearview shook her head, nonplussed, studying Arthur Piddle: “Probably thirty-five,” she thought, “He’s a fucking psycho, ninety degrees in the shade, and he doesn’t sweat, his clothes stay unwrinkled, and those eyes…”
Usually outspoken and opinionated, Clearview inwardly raged, confused and impotent. As their eyes locked, she wilted. “You’ve got some real problems, Mr. Piddle. I just don’t believe you mean these things.”
“Well, Ms. Clearview, I just don’t believe the world these days, but when you’re facing Satan, nothing can be discounted. Good day.” He strolled off smiling, and thought, “Those media folks ain’t as smart as they think they are.”
As he walked down Main Street, Piddle reflected on the grace bestowed upon him. Margie, his daughter, was active in church and obedient and Arthur Jr., a year older, was a good athlete who’d been offered college scholarships. “Unlike Sara Angel,” he thought, “hanging out in bars and meeting men like William Holder, my daughter is pure, my son is smart and my Margaret is upstanding and respectful and a good wife.” He smiled. “And with Margaret and the kids away, I’ve got the house to myself for peace and quiet and time for prayer.” He paused for traffic, and as he crossed the street said, “And I will pray for Sara Angel.”
Arthur had prayed for her throughout the trial. “She could certainly use a good husband and a good spanking,” he thought and blushed. “How does our society allow such women to flourish?”
Piddle recalled Angel’s long hair, green eyes and large breasts, “much larger than Margie’s deflated bubs,” he said, his wife handsome but never beautiful. He shook his head, frowning: “Sara Angel’s beauty lures and deceives. Yes, she’s beautiful, with her pretty face and curvaceous body and that big smile. A smile,” he thought, “that sends men straight to Hell.”
Across town, in Muddy Lake’s poorer quarters, Miss Mama held Sara tightly, letting her sob. She had read the late edition and saw the TV, and though Sara’s name was never mentioned, in a town like Muddy Lake there are no secrets: everyone knew both accused and victim and everyone knew Sara Angel was the one who paid for this crime.
“It’s just not fair, Mama.”
“I know child…” She held Angel tighter.
“I drank too much that night, and it was scorching out, so I wore only a long shirt…”
“You don’t have to say nothing…”
“…which ran below my knees, and nothing else but sneakers, and I left the Pigeon Hole with that man. But I never said he could hit me, and beat me or...”
“Please child, it’s over…”
“No Mama. It’s never over. Every time I close my eyes…” She couldn’t get that night out of her head. “I thought he was nice, and he had been.” He’d bought her cold beer and sounded sweet and looked good.
“But, Mama, as soon as we got back to my home he became an animal.”
“Please, child, you don’t have to say nothing.” Miss Mama led Sara to an overstuffed couch and had her lay down. “Try to rest.”
“Please Mama, let me speak.”
“Say what you need to say.”
He’d tried to kiss her. When she’d said no he backhanded her across the face, sending her spinning and falling over a discarded tire. She’d attempted escape, but he’d grabbed her hair and dragged her into the small trailer, knocking over her table and scattering her ashtray and some toiletries.
“Listen, bitch,” he’d said over a booze-thickened tongue, “no woman says no to me.” His face wore a mask of rage, and he’d began to take off his clothes. “You took me home, and now you’re going to make me feel good, do you understand, bitch?” She ran.
“But he caught me and grabbed my neck and smashed my head into the wall.”
Mama blanched, though she’d heard similar tales her whole life. “Over and over again, Mama, he slammed my face, I could taste the blood from my nose and forehead.” To save her life she went limp. He had a knife and cut the shirt, “right off my body, I was terrified. He tried to shove his thing in my mouth, and when I refused, he hit my jaw.”
When he’d finished, Holder hit her again and then went to the refrigerator for beer. His back turned, Sara grasped a plastic bottle of nail-polish remover which had fallen in the tumult. “After he drank his beer, he came for more.”
“Oh, my poor child…”
“He fell on me, forcing my legs apart and raping me, oh Mama, it’d hurt so, that bastard trying to make each jab more painful than the last...” Then he’d forced her to her stomach. “You know what he wanted, Mama…”
The older woman nodded.
But Sara had wrenched herself around and squeezed the bottle hard, splashing acetone into his unsuspecting eyes.
“For a moment he froze, Mama, that’s when I gave him another shot.” Holder had rubbed his burning eyes and hollered. “You fucking bitch, I’m going to kill you,” he’d said, screaming, “and I grabbed his junk and twisted with all my strength… Excuse me Mama, but I’ve dealt with men like this guy.”
“This ain’t no man, he’s a monster, that’s what he is…”
Sara shook her head. “No Mama, this is who men are, but that’s how I got away, I crushed his stuff so hard he almost passed out and then he fell over.” She’d jumped up, bolted from the trailer and had run, barefooted, a half mile to Mary Jane Winston’s little ranch house, pounding on her door, naked and sobbing and bleeding,
“Em-Jay took me in, Mama, gave me some clothes and water and then called the cops.” Sara couldn’t forget her assailant screaming as she’d run away: “You fucking bitch, I’m going to kill you.”
Cops had arrested Holder stumbling to his car, drunk and bloodied and red-eyed, and hauled him to the Muddy Lake Police Station. Sara had refused to press charges until a new district attorney, the county’s first woman in that job, arrived and changed Sara’s mind.
“Mama, she knew I’d been a hooker and stripper, but she called me, ‘smart, resourceful and informed.’”
“That,” said Miss Mama, “is ’cause you is…” Sara knew the type of jury Holder would get. “We both know the people who live in Muddy Lake, Mama, and we both know most folks blame the woman.” Miss Mama nodded.
The D.A. took Sara to the hospital the night of the attack for an examination and evidence gathering. Police photographed the violence Holder had committed on her body and her home. Sara repeated her story with no shame. She’d identified Holder in a lineup. She did what she had to do, the cops and D.A. impressed and confident, “But I knew, Mama, I knew he was going to walk.”
“I’m so sorry, child…”
“And even worse, Mama, the people who call themselves my friends. Miss Linda from church said, ‘You shouldn’t have been drinking in that bar, Sara. What got into you?’ And the ladies at the salon scolded me because I let Holder in my house, and even Chris —her ex-boyfriend— had said, “‘I want to kill that guy,’ but questioned my ‘common sense’ and still looks at me like spoiled meat.”
Miss Mama shook her head: “Don’t you pay them ignoramuses no mind, child.” Sara had tried to ignore it all, though her spirit blistered and cracked and she knew she couldn’t take too much more of it. And then the trial began and she’d dared to believe.
The District Attorney had done her homework and she along with medical witnesses and detectives had detailed Holder’s brutality. When Sara took the stand, she looked the jury members in the eye, never flinching, never exhibiting humiliation or shame.
Upon cross-examination, she stoically explained her pole dancing and prostitution as if her past employment was in banking or the clergy. But the defense sketched a portrait of a hooker and stripper who acted like a slut and plotted like a thief and was treated accordingly. Though the D.A. had objected frequently to the defense’s pointed questions, the jury, even when told to disregard, was obviously tainted.
“Of course, Mama, Holder never took the stand. So, the jury never knew about the time when he was fifteen and had raped a ten-year-old girl behind his parent’s garage. They never knew that when he was seventeen he’d fondled a young girl at the Jenko’s as her mother used the bathroom.” Sara’s tears flowed and Miss Mama took her hand.
“The jury never found out Holder did seven years for beating and raping a college girl off Highway Fifty-Three. The cops had found her in his car. He’d raped her so hard she’d almost died from losing blood. But she’d refused to testify or cooperate and he was allowed to plea to assault.”
“It’s frustrating for sure, child.”
“Mama, the jury didn’t hear that Holder’s wife had fled his abuse and violence. They didn’t know the type of man they were dealing with. But I did, I’d read his story in the papers and have known guys like him my whole life.”
“Ain’t we all, child?” When the jury came back, Sara Angel wasn’t surprised but had lost control indulging her rage and pain. “No one could blame you, child,” Miss Mama said, and Sara knew she was right.
“But that courtroom didn’t deserve to see my suffering, Mama, they broke me.” Mama squeezed her hand.
“They didn’t break anything, child, they don’t have that power.” Sara closed her eyes and breathed softly.
“I’m so angry, Mama, I want justice and revenge, and I know it’s wrong, but I’ve got hatred in my heart, hatred for everything, I’m sorry Mama…”
“Please, child,”
“...so hateful, that animal, but you know…”
“Yes, dear…”
“Holder is an animal, and deserves a bullet in the head, but you know who I really hate, fair or not?”
“No child…”
“That horrible juryman. That smug, self-righteous Arthur Piddle,” who’d looked at her with condemnation and lust, who’d sat in the jury box and stared at her legs and, “probably preached to his little Christian family on the evils of lascivious behavior…”
“This town is full of men like that…”
“Mama, I hate this man, this Arthur Piddle. You saw what he said on the TV. You read his hateful words in the newspaper.” Miss Mama nodded. “That’s why I came here, Mama. Please help me. Both of these men have to pay.”
“You know I don’t work for any evil. You know that...”
Sara nodded. “But Mama…”
“But they bring the evil upon themselves. That’s not my doing. I can only help direct where it’s going.” As Sara spoke, Mama had recalled a teacher, many years ago, who’d asked her to stay after class and when the others had left he’d closed the door and tried to touch her. He grabbed her and she’d screamed but nobody came. He tore her school uniform and she’d tried to run but he’d held her and touched her and she was terrified. Luckily someone had finally heard and interrupted. When her mother had found out, she’d smacked Mama hard across the face, “blamed me,” she remembered, and as Sara spoke it all came back and she cried.
“Sara, my child,” Miss Mama said, “You stop your tears. I understand...”
“Can you help me, Mama? Please help me.”
“I will, my precious child. Now stop crying ’cause I got work to do. You know what I need.” Sara produced a ballpoint pen which she handed over. “During the trial, Mr. Piddle took notes with this, I saw him leave it in the jury box,” said Sara.
Mama took the Parker, engraved AP, and then plucked a hair from Sara’s head, which she wrapped around the stainless-steel finish. Mama then retrieved a black envelope inked with strange red characters and sealed the pen within, closed her eyes and after a few moments confirmed she had what she needed.
“Now sleep while I do my work, child. Just lie down and let Mama take care of things.” Sara complied and as she fell asleep, Mama lowered the shades and turned down the lights. Candles glowed and incense burned and soft music permeated the smoke and then…
Arthur sat in the setting summer sun and sipped lemonade, the shadows growing longer and his thoughts drifting repeatedly to Sara Angel. “Her face and her body and those eyes,” he thought, “are the most spectacular I’ve ever seen.”
He rebuked himself, thinking of work or his wife or baseball scores but returned again to the bedeviling prostitute. “That behind of hers, her curvy waist, that perfume...” He fought his erection and when it subsided rose and went inside, feeling unease in the empty house, but dismissing his fear as childish.
Arthur watched the ball game, distracted, his scorecard error-riddled: “What would her breasts feel like in my hands?” he wondered, and struggled to ignore his desire. “Damn that woman...” He turned off the television and read his Bible, but his mind wandered.
He heard something in the kitchen and investigated but found nothing unusual and watched TV again, couldn’t concentrate, and opened his Bible, closing it and returning to the television, deciding finally upon bed. “I just don’t feel right,” he said, “If I can just get to sleep, everything will be better in the morning.”
Arthur stripped and put on blue pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, and, after saying his prayers, closed the light and got under the covers. In feverish twists and turns, he replayed the trial’s ending, fixated around Angel’s angry outburst:
“And you, Mr. Jury Foreman, you are just as evil and as guilty as he is. You could’ve stuck him away for years, but instead, you let him walk. You, too, will pay.”
“No,” he said and moaned.
“You, too, will pay…"
“No, no…”
"You, too, will pay."
Finally, he fell into a troubled nightmare:
He stalks Sara through Muddy Lake, following her as she leaves the Pigeon Hole. At her trailer she searches for a key while Arthur closes in, she opens her door and he attacks, shoving her violently inside and throwing himself atop her body.
She struggles fiercely, her resistance and fear arousing him, and he hits her and slaps her face, and cuts the straps of her dress, tearing it away and then her bra, kissing and biting her neck and breasts, his mouth stained with blood.
“Now, bitch,” he says, “you’re mine.” His closed fist slams her jaw, dazing her, he yanks her panties and pulls her legs open, forcing himself inside, his mocking laughter suddenly agonized howls, his penis trapped, steel barbs anchoring in his flesh, the hooks penetrating more deeply the harder he struggles.
Arthur panics and screams, trying to free himself as Angel transforms to a foul demon, monstrous and thickly muscled, razor-sharp teeth-gnashing within a hound’s maw, its face scarred and red and leathery.
“You, too, will pay.”
Arthur howls and the demon laughs, “Where’s your Bible, now, Piddle?”
The punishment between Arthur’s legs makes his eyes bulge. The demon roars and strikes Arthur’s chest, tearing Piddle loose with such force he smashes into a wall, the demon laughing as Arthur slides to the floor and then passes out, awakening alone in Sara’s trailer. He’s aware of great pain between his legs, touches himself there and examines his bloody fingers, discovering his blue pajamas stained deep red. The demon laughs.
“You, too, will pay.”
Arthur screamed and then woke, the first rays of dawn creeping underneath the drawn shades. “Just a horrible dream,” he said, the memory fading as he gained self-awareness. “The most horrible dream I’ve ever experienced.”
Arthur tried to fall back asleep, reflexively resting his hand on his crotch, discovering negative space beneath soft pubic hair, no penis, no scrotum: his eyes shot open, he yanked off his covers, sat up and pulled open his waistband, “Nothing,” he said, his voice rising, “this can’t be real. This can’t be real.” He pulled the pajama off and probed in desperation, his finger sliding in, a moment of pain than pleasure, and Arthur yelled. “It’s a vagina,” he said, “a cunt. A fucking cunt.”
He panicked, jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom, flipping on the light: “What’s happened to me,” Arthur said, wailing. “What in God’s name...” He stared at his reflection, “I’m still dreaming…” He touched his soft cheeks and long hair, his large breasts, “bigger than Margret’s,” he thought, then scolded himself.
His morning beard and Adam’s apple had vanished, his lips fuller and his skin soft and then he stepped in front of the full-length mirror. “I’ve lost my mind,” he said, taking in the woman before him. “What’s happened to me?”
He whimpered and ran a shower, hoping it might all wash off, but only excited himself with hot water and soap, realizing the absurdity of his actions and sat in the tub, shower streaming.
“Margaret, oh God, please, Margaret come to help me,” he said between sobs, but she was away and besides, “I can never let her or my children see me like this…”
Arthur stopped crying, got out of the shower and dried off, reaching for his wife’s robe, as he never wore one, and went to the kitchen for coffee, sitting at the table sipping his cup, struggling for an answer.
“Maybe I’ve died. Or maybe I’m unconscious, had a stroke last night. Or maybe I’m just dreaming. Maybe Satan is testing me. Yes! Perhaps I’m the only one to see myself like this…” He stepped onto his porch for the newspaper, a jogger slowed down, smiled and waved, “Good morning, are you a guest of the Piddles? I never knew Arthur had a sister, but you’re a dead ringer...”
Arthur frowned and turned away, quickly getting back inside and closing the door. “This is Satan. Satan. I’ll go to my church. No, I’ll go to a church over in Beaverton Falls where no one knows me.” He struggled to get into his own clothes, the waist in his pants too large and the thighs and behind much too tight, rummaging instead through his wife’s closet and drawers, finding a pair of slacks and a print blouse. In the pocket of the pants he found a folded letter, which he read:
Dear Thomas,
Soon we’ll be together again. If you only knew how I long for your touch and your kiss, the way you hold me. I’m so happy I met you, Thomas, you’ve shown me that my life can be fun and exciting and much bigger than ever can be had in Muddy Lake. Between your visits, I feel so empty and lonely. Arthur is so hard to live with, demanding, small minded and despotic. Once the children are safely out of the house, off to college and out of his reach, I’ll leave him, and then you and I can start a real life together. I long for your touch, I long for your kiss, and I long to make love to you again, as soon as possible.
With all my love, Margie
Arthur crumpled the letter and dropped it in the trash, quickly retrieving and rereading it several times before tearing it up. Fingers trembling, he dialed his mother-in-law, who picked up on the third ring. Arthur asked for his wife.
“Who is this? Margie’s not here, she dropped the kids and … who is this? And why are you calling from my daughter’s home?” She explained to someone on her end that a woman was calling and asking for Margie. “And she’s calling from their house.”
“Ma, it’s Arthur, put Margret on the phone.”
“Arthur? Who is this? What kind of joke is this? I’m calling the police…”
“Wait, Ma, I can explain…” She’d hung up and Arthur did too, sitting on his bed, tears running down his cheeks. “Abandoned by my family and by my God,” he said, rising and facing the mirror. “My God…There is no God, only Satan.” Arthur again approached the mirror. “And even worse, or worst of all, he made me a woman.”
He balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, opened them and spat towards his feminine reflection. “Why? Why?” He went to his closet and pulled down a green shoebox, hidden on the uppermost shelf, and retrieved a pistol, a gift from father on Arthur’s eighteenth birthday, and checked the chamber and magazine, stepping back in the room and sticking the muzzle under his chin, “Satan will never win in my house,” he said, pausing as he studied himself in the mirror.
“No, this is sinful and against God.” He turned and fired, the glass exploding and shards flying and smoke filling the room. “It’s her! She cast a spell, ‘You, too, will pay’: she really is of the devil. I know what I need to do.” He finished dressing, got into his car, the gun stashed in the glove box, and drove away, turning off his street just as a police cruiser stopped in front of his house.
Arthur had learned Angel’s address from trial testimony, her trailer a short drive from his home, and as he made his way through Muddy Lake, his rage built. A car rolled up as Arthur awaited a red light, three young men inside, the windows open. “Yo bitch,” one yelled, the others laughing, “Why don’t you pull over and take care of my friends and me?” Arthur stared back, retrieved his gun and pointed it in reply.
“Oh shit, motherfucker.”
The light changed and Arthur accelerated, screeching off Main Street on his way out of town. He drove and then parked about a half mile from Angel’s home, near a small clearing. “No need to alert the enemy,” he thought, “I’ll surprise and confront the demon, kill her and break this damned spell.”
Arthur hid the gun in his waistband and walked down a grassy hill, spotting Sara’s isolated trailer through a small woods, which he recognized from pictures presented at trial, and approached carefully, spying the yard from behind a tree.
“It appears she’s not home,” he thought, walking to the door and knocking but getting no answer. Arthur listened for a few moments, thought he heard something from around back and started towards the noise, found no one and peeked through Sara’s window, his face nearly pressed against the dirty glass to see inside when someone shoved him hard against the trailer and covered his mouth with a calloused hand.
“Not a sound or I’ll break your neck.” Arthur recognized the voice. Holder wrenched Arthur’s arm behind his back. “Move slowly,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “or I’ll rip that pretty wing of yours clean out your shoulder, okay?” Arthur nodded and was forced around front, Holder pinning Piddle’s arm andkicking open the front door. He shoved Arthur inside, who tripped and fell hard, his weapon dislodged and obscured underneath the TV stand, Holder still outside, the victim stunned by the blow and unaware he’d lost his gun.
Holder looked around, convinced they were alone, followed inside and closed the badly splintered door. Arthur felt for the gun, looked around and saw the butt under the television. “I’ve been waiting for the bitch,” said Holder. “If she thinks she can outsmart me by sending one of her cunt friends to pick up her stuff, she’s got a little lesson in store...”
“I’m no friend of Sara Angel’s,” said Arthur, rising shakily to his feet, “I can reassure you that I...”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch, before I smash your teeth down your throat.”
Holder was enraged, his words slurring and flecks of spittle flying with every foul utterance. “I know who the fuck you are and why you’re here.” Now his eyes ran over Arthur’s body. He leered at Arthur’s breasts pressed against the thin blouse. “And if I can’t finish what I started with that fucking whore Sara, you’ll do very nicely. Very nicely. In fact, I’m gonna fuck you real hard, in your mouth and your cunt and your ass, and then, I’m gonna send you back to Angel bleeding.”
Holder pulled a knife out of his pocket, pressed a button and a nasty eight-inch stiletto blade popped out. “Come here, bitch.”
“Please,” said Arthur, begging, “I’m not here for Sara. I hate...”
Holder backhanded Arthur with such force it sent him crashing into the wall. He thought his neck had snapped, stunning him so he slid slowly down, blood flowing from his nose. Holder approached and grabbed Arthur’s hair, yanking him up and ripping the blouse down. “Take your pants off, slut,” he said, Arthurdoing so as Holder pressed the blade against the back of Arthur’s neck.
Holder squeezed Arthur’s breasts and licked his hair, thrusting a hand into Arthur’s panties and forcing a finger deep inside, his breathing increasing when Arthur gasped and painfully groaned. Holder tore off the panties and stuck his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, the point of the knife making a dimple in the soft flesh of Arthur’s breast. Holder threw him to the ground with such force he was again stunned.
“Get on your knees, bitch.” Arthur complied and stared blankly as Holder dropped his pants and pulled out his erection, thankfully, Arthur thought, facing away from the gun. “Suck my dick, bitch.” Arthur resisted, but when Holder cut underneath Arthur’s right eye and threatened to carve out an eyeball, Arthur opened his mouth and Holder thrust his hips: “suck it, bitch.”
Arthur gagged and coughed and whimpered and cried, but did as ordered, and soon Holder ejaculated. “Good job, whore. The fun’s just beginning…”
He slapped Arthur’s face and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket but realized he had no match. “Fuck,” he yelled, and hit Arthur again, yanking open a nearby cabinet in search of a light. Arthur almost vomited, Holder’s ejaculate still warm in his mouth, but at that moment made for the gun. Holder heard him, turned and lunged, but wasn’t quick enough: Arthur stretched his arm and grabbed the pistol, bringing it up and firing three shots into Holder’s chest, the rapist staggering back, mouth agape, and falling to his knees. “No bitch is going to …” Holder raised the knife and moved forward, then tumbled over dead, the blade stuck in the cheap linoleum. Arthur Piddle cried and then passed out.
Sara Angel drove up the gravel driveway of Evergreen Hospital, a few towns over from Muddy Lake. She parked her car and entered the once opulent mansion, now a sanctuary for the mentally and criminally insane, and, after being thoroughly searched, was led to a room where she took a seat facing a thick glass partition. The orderly who stood behind her smiled as he studied Sara’s body. She ignored him. Presently, Arthur Piddle appeared and sat on the other side of the glass and motioned for her to pick up the phone. She obliged.
“Listen, Mr. Piddle, I really don’t know why it was so urgent for you to see me, but when your ex-wife phoned me and told me how desperate you were to talk, I decided to come over here.”
“Thank you, Sara, I really appreciate this. I just wanted to apologize for the things I said after your trial. I was wrong. Very wrong.” Sara studied Arthur for a moment. He was unshaven and had lost quite a bit of weight.
“Of course, my wife filed for divorce and my children won’t speak to me…” After his arrest and murder charge, Arthur was deemed incompetent due to loss of mental facilities. One look in those gray eyes convinced Sara he had certainly lost his mind.
“I’ll never understand why you were in my home wearing your wife’s clothing, Mr. Piddle, but you did the world a service when you shot William Holder dead.”
“I was very wrong, Sara, for the things I said, I really was, and I just wanted you to know that.” Arthur replaced the phone in its cradle, motioned to the orderly on his side, and was led away to his room.
Sara sat there for a moment and smiled. As she got up to leave, she thought she’d do something nice for Miss Mama. “Maybe I’ll bake her some of that banana bread she loves so.” She looked at the still-gaping orderly, and said, “Don’t get any stupid ideas.” And then she left the hospital and drove back to Muddy Lake.
