Rescue me, take me in your arms. Rescue me, I want your tender charms...
“Where’s GJ when I need her?” was the thought that popped into his head when he surfaced for the third time from the cup and saucer sedative. There she was, in his corner. Lifting her finger to her lips, she pantomimed a shushing motion, alerting him to silence. He was circumspect this time, not letting on that he was awake. From his previous tête-à-tête with the guy who purchased him – he wondered how much he’d gone for…had the value of a Black Man appreciated over time? – he knew there was only an old-fashioned intercom system in this waiting room. He doubted that they’d sprung for a motion detector, so he intended to get loose and get out.
Easier said than done. Those leather straps were immovable. Like he was fastened into a straitjacket.
But…he noticed a visitor. The tiny company reminded him of the story where a Chinese guy temporarily forgot the English word for “mouse” but needed to report one to his hotel’s staff so he called down and said, “You know Tom and Jerry? Jerry is here.”
Jerry was present. In a sterile environment, Jerry was obviously a foe. Perhaps Jerry could help him out here. He went with the adage, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The Shepherds and their anything but meticulous planning didn’t account for one Avery Plastic Surgeon. Looks like they’d become complacent over time or simply relied on pure dumb luck. He had Joey and Jerry; his secret weapons. The triple J’s were more than a match for that foolishly feebleminded feather-brained foursome. Or, as he’d figured out who Ben and Margaret actually were, the sociopathic sextet.
Jerry had managed to gnaw away part of the leather covering of the armchair. A small part that was within close proximity to his fingers. This allowed him to remove a little chunk of the cotton stuffing, enough to custom create a primitive set of ear plugs. He scoffed quietly to himself at the cotton pickin’ slave analogy. That rudimentary item not only saved his life, but led to seven other deaths. Six Shepherds and one Mark Sloan were toast.
Brother Alex, the first casualty, was brought down by Artisanal Bric-a-Brac in the shape of melons. Assuming that he was still hypnotically sedated (thank you Jerry ear-plugs for rendering that ineffective), Alex had untied him and left him unsupervised. That had been his downfall for Jackson had smashed the melon ball to the back of his head and he’d been down for the count. What had sealed his fate later however, had been meeting the pointy end of two items – a letter opener and Jackson’s boots – when he’d attempted to stop Jackson from leaving.
Father Derek was next, courtesy of the stuffed deer gracing the wall. Bambi’s dad perhaps? A fitting revenge that the proud animal would surely have appreciated – antlers through the jaw, reaching into the brain-doctors brain.
Retired Doctor Mark Sloan, scull-cap already disposed, had lain open-brained on an operating table, awaiting a doctor whose own brain was mush. What caused his ultimate doom could have been the absence of a replacement brain (probably not, coz he figured that if the Wizard of Oz’s Scarecrow could survive without a brain…) or the fire started when Shepherd knocked over a candelabra during his death throes. What was the purpose of burning candles in that environment was anyone’s guess. Anyway, he thought it fitting that the old Plastic Surgeon probably met his demise brainless and with severe burns and scarring caused by fire.
On his way up from the basement he’d come across Grandmother Margaret, who simply scurried away in fear. This had lead him to bumping into Mother Meredith and the bitch had tried it. He simply got to it first, knocking the cup from the table, smashing it to smithereens. She managed to grab and plunge a letter opener into his palm. But he was hyped up on adrenalin and he did possess the natural abilities that made him their candidate in the first place. So even with a sharp object protruding from his hand, he managed to weaponize the item, turning it on her. Hence the Head Shrink had her head shrunk, via letter opener through the eye socket.
Throughout the ruckus caused by the growing count of dead bodies and one fire, not a peep was heard out of KK, the ultimate deceitful criminal. She was the honey-trap in the racist family business, luring Black People into non-consensual lobotomies. Body-snatched, they were, for the benefit of an older, rich, white clientele.
Since he was weakened from blood loss and his ordeal, he chose not to seek her out but simply to make his escape. The authorities could deal with her. He grabbed an unattended cell phone and car keys on his way out and as luck would have it (finally!) these items aided in the remaining three mortalities.
Where Grandmother Margaret popped out from he didn’t know. But he did brake the purloined white Corvette when he heard, and felt, the impact of body hitting car. He knew who and who she was…both of her and despite everything he let emotion overtake logic. The single track of tears she’d shed before, moved him. As well as her uncanny resemblance to his step-sister. Sentiment overrode his good sense and it almost cost him. She was only the Shepherd Grandmother as she screeched and pummeled at him for destroying her house. But it cost her too. This time tree met car and unbelted as she was the impact lost her all her lives.
Very quickly he found KK. Or, rather she found him. Shotgun toting, white KK. She didn’t slow him down though. “Nope. Not today, Satan,” he murmured to himself, limping away from the wreckage and trying to hobble as fast as possible out of gun-shot range. He didn’t anticipate Grandfather Ben tackling him to the ground whilst struggling to strangle the life out of him. Attempting to cut-off his oxygen supply may have sent a burst of desperation to his brain, for the plan came to him. In a split-second and out of KK view, he managed to whip out the cell-phone and hit Ben with a flash photo. He remembered what it had done to Jerek Deter and hoped for a similar result. A reprieve, at least. And it worked. Better than even he could have anticipated. Taking the gun from Daughter Krista/Kinka, Ben shot her point blank in the abdomen. Then proceeded to blow his own brains out.
She was still alive. This woman who’d tried, unsuccessfully but with no credit to her, to murder him. To cause him to exist in an eternal hell as a passenger, with no escape. He proceeded to choke the remaining life out of her. A vehicles lights shone its high beams onto that scene, siren accompanied. Looked vaguely like a cop-car. The door opened and KK, sensing rescue, immediately cultivated a plot to indict him and cause her to be the white victim of a deranged Black Man. And considering the number of fatalities, he guessed the spin would be ‘Serial Killer’.
“Help…Help me,” she croaked.
His Crime: Killing their game.
The Verdict: Guilty as charged.
Danger! Not only will this kill, it will hurt the whole time you’re dying…