One Last Hunt

Him

The red vortex swirls down the drain, washing away the last remnants of my crime. I wipe my hands clean and thank the ranger for his hospitality.

"You sure made a mess," the ranger says.

"An unfortunate side effect of an otherwise perfect job," I say with a grin. "All that digging in the Sedona soil, things were bound to get a little dirty."

The ranger chortles. "You ain't kidding. Lots of red earth. Say, you find anything good?"

Oh, did I ever.

I present my fistful of riches: a diamond ring, a gold bracelet, a jewel-encrusted brooch. The ranger's disappointment is palpable. "I know that look. Sorry to report we're not uncovering the Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine or Billy the Kid's hidden stash. Most treasures I find are of the recently lost variety." Like that old woman. She's now recently lost, buried beneath the yucca and prickly pear, her only grave marker a smattering of blood-red rock formations. My buried treasure, not to be found until I'm long gone.

"Just a bunch of tall tales," the ranger says. "I guess I'd better get back to work."

"Me too," I agree. "Thanks again for letting me use the bathroom. I would have killed for a sink." I collect my metal detector, Sofia, and escort her out the door.

Inside my car, I deposit the dearly departed's jewelry into the glove compartment. It will fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop, but it's far from today's biggest acquisition. That would be a thin rectangle of perforated paper in the passenger's seat. It's a blank check written out to "Cash" and signed by Barbara Simmons. My lips curl into a smirk as I recall all those digits printed on her bank receipt.

Eyes shift from the drop of blood in the backseat to the ranger station. He's watching me through the window. I depart with a timid wave, and soon my pavement-devouring Jeep has transformed the red mountains into nothing more than a memory.

Her

I'm in a humid room with 11 men, a severed deer's head, and a colony of beetles. It's not nearly as kinky as it sounds. Actually, it's not kinky at all; I'm attending my first event with the Amateur Taxidermists of Phoenix. Despite his rugged exterior, the host greets the warm room with a warm welcome:

"Hello, friends. I don't want you to lose your heads, but it's European mount month." He waits for a laugh that never comes. "Anyway, I see we have a new member tonight. Mind sharing your name and a little about yourself, miss?"

Seeing as how I'm the only miss, I take the hint and pair a fake name with my real profession: "I'm Alice, and I'm a librarian." The crowd doesn't exactly strike me as the bibliophile type, so I don't foresee any awkward run-ins anytime soon.

One man in a Busch Light t-shirt scoffs and says, "Don't think your book covers this unit." He gets a few laughs before the host continues:

"The Euro mount is a timeless and cost-effective alternative to the traditional mount. Here, we have 2,000 dermestid beetles, which can consume all your trophy's flesh in a couple days. This technique is preferred by many because it preserves the details of the fragile bones in the nose and around the eyes. However, those who want to get the most bang for their buck can take matters into their own hands." He presents a thin deboning knife. "Anyone care to take a crack?"

The burly men are suddenly shy. Though I'm not one for the spotlight, this is an opportunity I can't pass up. When I step forward, the men's eyebrows raise to their hairlines; these are the type of guys who believe a woman shouldn't be handling a knife unless she's spreading Miracle Whip. The host hands me a pair of rubber gloves and the blade, and I get to skinning. Initially, he tries to guide me through it with such pointers as "Start at the base of the skull" and "Be gentle around the nose and teeth", but he soon realizes that I'm a flesh-carving machine and is reduced to nothing more than a spectator.

Stunned at the neatly picked skull, the host babbles something about boiling the skull for four hours. Then he turns to me and asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"

I snap off the blood-tinged gloves and stare straight into the face of the Busch Light bro. "From a book," I say.

Him

It's feeding time at the Great Sonoran Reptile Park. I've always welcomed the sight of a predator consuming its prey. When watching nature documentaries, I cheer for the lions, crocodiles, and snakes. Ah, the satisfaction of it all. Witnessing the juicy rewards of a flawlessly executed hunt. But this is different. Where's the challenge? These cold-blooded tacticians have been reduced to domesticated prisoners awaiting spoonfed handouts of pathetic, pre-slaughtered prey. Sprinkle a dash of crickets into a Gila monster's jaws, toss a limp rodent into the cage of a sidewinder. It all seems too easy.

Speaking of easy prey, I spot a silver-haired woman drenched in perfume that reeks of money and sadness. A recent widow, no doubt. Her modest cleavage hints at the ghost of sexuality, a ghost I hope to resurrect. I move in. The sun hits her just right, illuminating a diamond ring valued at half the GDP of Iceland. Beside it, on her middle finger, is a vaguely familiar and largely uninspiring ring. It's severed from my memory almost instantly. I give her a quick once-over, but I don't say a word. I let my body speak, a well-crafted lie of muscle mass sculpted meticulously at the gym for the sole purpose of attracting lonely women. I wear shirts a size too small to accentuate my torso. She side-eyes the shit out of me, no doubt fantasizing about yours truly as her shirtless cabana boy. Little does she know I'll be taking much more than her tips.

"Repulsive creatures," the woman says, breaking the silence.

"That they are," I lie. "I can't imagine who would invest in such a grotesque endeavor."

"Me," the woman says. She offers a firm handshake. "Mary Wolff, owner of Great Sonoran Reptile Park."

I laugh, feigning embarrassment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"--Quite all right. 'Grotesque' is an apt descriptor in this case. I never cared for the beasts. No, this little spectacle belonged to my late husband Gene. It's all I have left of him, the dear man."

That and a multimillion-dollar inheritance.

My hand moves imperceptibly closer. "When did he pass?"

"Last June," Mary says with the genesis of a tear in her eye.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Fingertips gently caress her shoulder. She places her hand on mine. It's the one with the diamond.

"Fuck it," Mary says coldly. She catches my raised brow and grins deviously. "Nothing I can do now but move on." Her papier-mâché fingers stroke mine.

I return the favor. "That's very brave of you."

"Brave's got nothing to do with it. This was Gene's adventure; I'm still searching for mine. But that's enough about me. What do you do?"

"Well..." I begin.

This is almost too easy.

Her

This is almost too easy. Friday night at a Scottsdale bar, my tits spilling from a low-cut top, I'm bound to get laid. Since my needs aren't being met by the parade of fuckboys on Tinder and Bumble, I decide to try somewhere with a bit more class, an establishment arrogant enough to refer to itself as a "lounge" merely to charge $25 a cocktail. I cozy up at the bar and cheat toward the audience, showing off my assets to the crowd of thirsty men. This won't take long.

Within five minutes, the bartender sets an orange-red, ice-cubed abomination in front of me. "From the gentleman over there," he says while I regard the orange slice and cherry garnishes with disgust. The gentleman over there is a 60ish douche swimming in Tommy Bahama, looking just as tan and boring as every Scottsdale retiree. He gives me a wave and taps his drink, a Sex on the Beach. That's one thing he sure as hell won't be getting. I return a little salute and spit in my drink. He gets the hint, shriveling up like his little dick did years ago. While the elderly perverts do love me, I'm not looking to wake up beside a wrinkly wave of liver spots, a jar of Metamucil powder on the nightstand.

No, I'm looking for a more virile partner tonight. Preferably someone with regular bowel movements. I spot the stud just three spots over; his chiseled features are tucked under a worn cowboy hat and his ropy country muscles bulge through tight layers of denim. He's sucking whiskey from a lowball when I meet his dusty green eyes. I waste no time moseying over to him and declaring, "Haven't seen you around."

With a square-jaw grin, he answers in pure Southern sex appeal: "You surely haven't. This is my first time."

"Ooh, a virgin. What brings you here tonight?"

"Drownin' my sorrows after a rough one." He alludes to the scrapes on his otherwise perfect face. I notice his clothes are caked in dirt.

It suddenly comes to me: "You're in town for the rodeo."

"Yes, ma'am."

I'm offended. "'Ma'am'? Do I really look that old?" I lean in so our knees are touching.

His face flushes with red. "I didn't mean it like that." He searches for the right words at the bottom of his glass. They're not down there.

I change the subject: "So, you're in the rodeo. What's your specialty?"

"Ropin' and bull ridin'."

"Are bulls the only thing you ride?" I'm practically inside his Wranglers.

"Ma'am?"

"Didn't I tell you not to call me 'ma'am'?"

"I'm sorry, m--iss. You're very beautiful, and I'd love to buy you a drink, but I seen what you did with that first one."

I graze his ear with my lips, whisper, "Lucky for you, that's the only time I spit."

The lump swells in his pants. "You want to get out of here?"

"You read my mind."

His cheap motel room brings back both good and bad memories, nights of sweaty rapture and of unspeakable pain. But I'm here to dwell on his dick, not the past. I waste no time with the sentimentality of kissing, opting to unzip his pants immediately. Somewhere around 10 inches spills from his jeans; it would make sense a cowboy is hung like a horse. When he tries to wrestle out of his jean jacket, I tell him to keep it on, grabbing his giant muscle and deepthroating as much as I can handle. There's still plenty of meat for me to stroke while sucking his throbbing mushroom, since I can only consume a little over half of him. I lick from head to balls, following the blue-veined road with my tongue. Then I choke on it some more, my saliva coating his cock in natural lubricant, which I use to stroke his thick base as I inhale gleefully.

When I need a break to breathe, I expand my strokes from base to head, making sure he's fully taken care of at all times. I cup his balls with one hand and beat him off enthusiastically in a wet fapping frenzy. A primal grunt originates in his throat. "Yes," he whispers. I continue the assault, jerking and sucking him as fast as I can. His cock grows in my throat and his breathing intensifies. He's close. Though I would love for him to bust a fat load on my face, I don't want it to end yet. I stop just before he spews to provide some recovery time while I dig through my purse.

"I got a condom," he says, out of breath.

I despise condoms. It's like being fucked by a plastic bag. "That's not what I'm looking for," I say as my fingers brush the stiff nylon. Out comes what I was looking for, a two-foot-long strand of braided, half-inch rope.

"What's that for?" he asks with genuine confusion.

"I want you to choke me," I smile.

He doesn't. "I can't."

"Why not? You do it with cattle."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Those are animals."

"We're all animals," I say, getting down on all fours. There aren't many men who are prone to arguing when there's a wet beaver in their face, and farm boy is no exception. Few earthly sensations compare to the moment a stiff cock first slides in. It's like you're full without ever realizing you'd been empty. You're complete, and you feel remarkably close to the person who completed you, even if they're a total stranger. It's for this reason I can't help but moan when farm boy fills me up. However, after the initial pleasure of penetration wears off, I notice he's being excruciatingly gentle. This will not do. "Harder," I demand.

His strokes accelerate, but he's still not applying any force to the rope. "Choke me," I growl. He tugs the rope meekly. "Harder!" The rope pulls tighter. My breathing is restricted as he gives me all 10 inches. But it's not enough. "Harder, you pussy!" I shriek.

I can tell I bruised his ego (men do not like to be called pussies), because farm boy loses all semblance of gentlemanly charm, yanking the reins like I'm an unruly horse. It's about damn time. Gasping for air, I beg him to go deeper. His granite abs slap repeatedly, almost mechanically, against my cheeks as he goes balls deep with powerful thrusts. "Yes!" I choke with the little voice I have, through watering eyes and blurred vision. I'm seeing dots now. Is it from the carnal pleasure or the lack of oxygen? Who cares? It's sublime.

I feel it building up in me, feel the escalating ecstasy that will soon crescendo in a beautiful thing called the female orgasm. I bite a pillow and squeal that I'm going to come. It hits me all at once, a joy explosion that forces every muscle into spasm and overwhelms my head with helium lightheadedness. My body can handle it no more, and I black out mid-climax.

He's pulling up his pants when I awake. "That was fun," he says, looking me up and down with a warm smile. "Maybe I could get your number, and we have ourselves another rodeo."

I smile back. "I never want to see you again."

Him

After a morning with my reptilian friends, I rejoin the ranks of the warm blooded. The trendy little gym is packed, and I'm putting on a show for the patrons, pumping black and blue resistance bands in a perspiratory blur. This is necessary training; I meet a lot of resistance in my profession. During my cooldown, I can feel the heat of so many lustful eyes. While I'm flattered, the ladies who frequent this gym aren't my type. Both their ages and their bank accounts are far too low.

Speaking of low, my neighbor Marty, fresh off a couple uninspired reps on the bench press, waddles over and slaps me on the back. "You're killing it, buddy!" he announces, making sure every single woman within a quarter mile can hear. While he appears harmless, I recently learned that Marty is a private investigator. And though we do live in the same neighborhood, I can't shake the feeling that I'm seeing entirely too much of him lately. Almost as if he's following me. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

"Um, thanks," I say, very much aware Marty is plotting to make me his unwilling wingman.

Marty scopes out the babes, who are not returning the scope, and wipes the flop sweat from his brow. "Can't leave your loyal fans waiting. What do you say we do a little meet and greet?"

"Sorry, I'm not one for the limelight. You go ahead." I depart for the locker room as Marty unleashes a barrage of cringe-worthy pickup lines. Maybe I overestimated him. Maybe he is nothing more than the horny dweeb I'd pegged him for. Either that or he's one damn fine actor.

In the shower, I twist the handle to maximum heat and disappear in the rising steam. Though the temperatures would be scalding to most people, I don't feel a thing. Just like I didn't feel a thing when those women pierced me with the longing in their eyes. I believe in something like love, even if someone like me can never experience it. This makes my life easier.

I share a few impersonal goodbyes with the gym staff and duck out the door. Thus concludes my social plans for the day. The remainder of the evening will be spent researching the valuables I picked from my latest victim's corpse. Even with minimal coaxing, the old girl showed up in enough jewelry to make Mr. T blush. If she was looking to impress me, she succeeded. I just hope the pawn shops are as impressed.

Pulling into the driveway of my modest Phoenix home, a now-familiar sight catches my eye. The dingy brick-and-mortar building called "Mesquite Public Library" has always sat across the street. However, it generally hasn't housed many high-end automobiles. And yet amongst the sea of jalopies and standard-feature vehicles there is a luxury sedan that calls the public parking lot home five days a week. I'm no gear head, but I know an expensive car when I see one. Perhaps an investigation is in order. For now, though, let me count the fruits of a successful hunt.

Her

Leave it to the library to make a 46-year-old feel young. The employee dress code appears to be a remnant of the Victorian age. My coworkers model various combinations of patternless maxi dresses, baggy slacks, cardigans, chunky blouses, and orthopedic shoes. Though their ages range from 25-70, they all look identical, just different generations of the same woman. All the type to knit, go to the opera, can their own vegetables, and watch the BBC. Of all the authors in the world, they choose to reread Jane Austen and, God save us, the Brontë sisters.

One time, another librarian named Bonnie inquired about my literary crush. She'd swooned over the Mr. Darcys and Heathcliffs; you know, those aloof love interests from every 19th century romance, hatched from the wet dreams of lonely English broads. When I told Bonnie whom I preferred to these milquetoast mannequins, she nearly pissed herself.

"Hannibal Lecter!" Bonnie exclaimed. "Surely, you jest."

"You're looking at this the wrong way. He's brilliant, witty, cultured, and not afraid to get his hands dirty. What more could you ask for?"

We certainly don't get men like that in the library. No, we mostly get the ascot and beret-wearing types, flamboyantly bouncing in. The hetero Truman Capotes, I call them. One such specimen is approaching my counter at this very moment.

"Excuse me," he says, "I placed a hold on Ethan Frome. Where can I pick it up?"

I make minimal eye contact. "I'd suggest the 'Holds' aisle."

He laughs. Or whimpers. I don't know. "Have you read the novel?"

"In seventh grade."

"I would strongly encourage a revisit. It's a work that offers a fresh experience as we advance in age. Not that you've advanced all that much since seventh grade."

There's no chance in hell I'm wasting my eyes on that whiny love triangle. "I'll put it on my list."

Finally, the pretentious wimp retreats to search for Edith Wharton's paper abortion. Bonnie jabs me in the ribs. "He was hitting on you!"

"So?"

"So? Do you know who he is?"

"Remove me from my ignorance."

"Ashton Maloney. He's the curator at the Heard Museum."

I start a lie but can't finish it: "That's... the most boring fucking thing I've ever heard in my life."

"Oh, please! He's a cutie pie."

"I prefer cake."

Bonnie giggles and buries her nose in Mansfield Park. "You're too much."

Ashton Maloney gives me a wink as he minces out the door with his little book, and I think that maybe I'll stay single for the remainder of eternity.

Him

The valuables suffer a fate almost as tragic as their owners. Immaculately cut gems, solid gold, and flawless pearls are imprisoned behind fingerprint-smudged glass cases in rundown towns with names like Buckeye, Casa Grande, and Wickenburg. I only sell one item per pawn shop and never near my home. When the ragtag employees need their suspicions quelled, I make up a story about an aunt's inheritance or an estate sale, just so long as the acquisition is legal. As if they'd care.

The owners are all wolves, their only aim to fleece the customer. Unfortunately for them, I am no lamb. Every item I lay before them is thoroughly researched, the price etched in my mind. A full return is not realistic in these sordid little shops, but I gladly accept 75% of the value and total anonymity. When the time comes to write up a ticket, I have an endless list of aliases at my disposal. Beautiful, untraceable cash, one day I must write an ode to you. The unnamed poet, no longer unpaid.

It's been a profitable day, and I only have one more item to unload. I step inside Dug Up Treasures Pawn Shop with an exquisite diamond bracelet. The man behind the register wears an eyepatch and reeks of cheap gin. He offers me considerably less than the bracelet's recommended price tag; he couldn't see its value with two eyes. I accept, aware that such high-end items never reach their potential in such low-class establishments. It's still a hefty sum, and I'm tired of humid shops and humorless employees.

I'm halfway out the door when a familiar voice stops me:

"So, this is where you find all your treasures." It's Mary Wolff.

I don't miss a beat: "If it isn't my favorite venomous reptiles expert." I look her up and down. She's wearing the two rings. For some reason, I focus on the little one, which stands out in its utter insignificance.

Mary laughs at me. "Stop. You're the last person I expected to see here."

"I surprise myself sometimes." I require the briefest of hesitations to summon an explanation: "I just so happen to be in the area, scouting out locations for my next hunt. And, unfortunately, my aunt recently passed, leaving some pieces of jewelry that I daresay aren't quite my style. So I suppose this is a dual-purpose trip."

"I'm so sorry. Were you close?"

"I'm selling her last earthly possessions at a pawn shop, so I wouldn't exactly say we were inseparable."

"Profiting off the dead. Quite the lucrative business."

You have no idea. "So, what brings you to this lovely little nook of The Grand Canyon State?"

Mary laughs at herself. "Believe it or not, this is a hobby of mine. You find the most interesting things in pawn shops. Wouldn't you agree?"

The cheshire cat grin spreads across my face. "Absolutely. Though I'm afraid I've had my fill for the day. Happy hunting."

I'm all the way out the door this time when Mary practically shrieks: "Don't forget about our expedition!"

I come all the way back in and slice Mary to pieces with my eyes. "Don't worry, you're at the top of my list."

Her

"I don't want it."

This isn't the typical reaction to being handed a check for $3.57 million, but this is exactly how I greet my lawyer's seven-figure offering. I never reach for it; my hands are busy dissecting two syrup-soaked buttermilk pancakes. My lawyer is not pleased: "What do you mean? He left you everything. We've been finalizing this for months."

"I don't deserve it," I say with a mouthful of sticky goodness.

"He thought you did."

I swallow. "You don't understand. I never loved him."

"This isn't about love," my lawyer says, jabbing at his over-easy eggs. "This is about the law, and his last will and testament named you as the sole beneficiary."

Shrugging, I shovel in another two-tiered bite. "Don't need it, don't want it."

"Just take it. Pay off that nice car of yours." He grabs two strips of bacon.

"I work for a living."

The bacon crumbles in his clenched fist. "Christ, then donate it to charity." With the same hand, he extends the check where I can't ignore it.

"Maybe I will," I say, taking the grease-stained paper. "Have you been paid for your services? Got your cut?"

He smiles politely. "That's all been taken care of."

"Good. You're fired."

"Excuse me?"

"You're gone. Now, get out of my sight. I'll pay for your Denny's."

I think my lawyer calls me a "cunt" as he departs, but other than that it's a pleasant breakfast. After signing for the bill, I use the same pen to endorse my check. Beneath my signature, I write "Pay to the order of Prevent Child Abuse America" and take half of my Grand Slam to go.

Him

"Stocking up for another hunt, huh?" The man speaking is Bill, a friendly cashier with a pushbroom mustache and an ex-wife. This is at the Hardware Hut, a small-time home improvement retailer pushed to the brink of extinction by the Home Depots and Lowe'ses of the world. It's the perfect place to gather my supplies inconspicuously. In fact, it'll probably be out of business by the time anyone suspects me of a thing.

"Another shovel run," I say. "Darned things just can't seem to hold up."

"Third one this year," Bill says. "You must work too hard."

"Or I'm hitting too many hard objects."

Bill exhales a throaty laugh that disturbs the bristles above his lip. "Rock troubles. I hear ya." He strides toward a not-too-far shelf and barks back, "Say no more!" When he returns, he is clutching a heavy-duty shovel with a round point and a badass blade. "Whatcha think?"

"Looks nice," I say, visions of blunt-force blood spatter playing in my head. "What is it?"

"New from Digco. Features include a shock-resistant handle, steel-reinforced fiberglass shaft, and bronze/copper alloy blade. Pretty sweet, huh?"

I'm nearly drooling. "Yes," is all I can get out.

"Only issue is that it's a bit pricey."

"Gotta spend money to make money."

"That's the spirit." He's off again, gathering my order and shouting back: "Where you headed? If you don't mind me asking!"

"Not at all. Thought I'd try my luck in the Superstition Mountains, just outside of Apache Junction."

Bill returns to the register. "Ah! Lost Dutchman's Gold Mine, huh?" Four zaps from the pricing gun and I'm all set. "Remember to bring plenty of water. This time of year, Arizona can be murder."

I gather the sharp instruments in my arms. "Tell me about it."

Her

There's a loud "thunk" when I bury the knife directly in the center of his head. I fling another, and it burrows beside the first one. I do it again. And again. And again. All five blades are embedded in his motionless skull. That's a perfect 25 points. I'm off to a good start at Fun With Weapons, a knife and ax-throwing range hidden in the sleepy suburbs of Avondale.

"Oh, man! How do I follow that?" the thrower in the adjacent lane bemoans. He studies his target, which is the outline of a man stenciled on a cedar board: 5 points for the head, 4 for the neck, 3 for the chest, 2 for the stomach, and 1 for the appendages.

"No pressure," I assure, taking a peek. He's a tall, handsome man about my age with a square, Kennedy jawline. For a minute, he's got my juices flowing. That is, until he throws. Had the wooden man been made of flesh, he wouldn't require much more attention than a Band-Aid.

"Got any pointers?" the handsome man asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "Do the opposite of what you just did."

He flashes a set of sexy pearly whites. "Brilliant advice. Do you offer lessons?"

"At a nominal fee."

"I'll pay anything."

I help him retrieve his knives and get into it. "You look like you have big, strong hands, so I'd recommend the hammer grip. Wrap your fingers around the handle like you would with a hammer... or something else." I set my hand on his and readjust those rough, masculine fingers. "Place your thumb on the spine of the handle and make sure you have a secure hold."

"Oh, it's secure," he says, brushing my hand gently.

"Keep your shoulders square to the target." I squeeze his bulging deltoids. "Lock your wrist." Forearms aren't bad either. "Elbow tucked." I'm able to refrain from any further groping. "And follow through with your momentum." It's nothing lethal, but at least he gets one in the wood this time. "Better."

"I won't lie," he says, "I'm much better with a different knife."

"Oh?" I say, something stirring within.

"Being a surgeon and all."

"Oh," I say with palpable disappointment.

He doesn't seem to notice, probably too used to women getting wet over his robust six-figure income. "What do you do?"

"I'm a librarian."

He laughs. "A knife-throwing librarian. Sounds like every man's fantasy."

"Or nightmare."

"I'd love to wake up screaming. How about you give me your number?"

Him

The library's siren song finally lures me to the parking lot, where I examine the shimmering silver testament to European craftsmanship. The car is even more beautiful up close; it's like seeing a movie star in person. But what is it doing in a crumbling lot across from Costco? I must meet the owner, if only to put an end to my unhealthy curiosity.

There is a librarian, a rather attractive woman in her mid to late 40s, seated at the front desk with her nose buried in a book. I'm intrigued by the title, Wicked Words: Analyzing the Writings of Serial Killers. Not your everyday read.

"Pardon me," I say with a smile. "That's quite an interesting title. Learning anything new?"

She keeps her eyes on the pages and replies with deadpan indifference: "Most killers are lonely, delusional schoolchildren with the social acumen of a ham sandwich."

"Hm," I say, not exactly disproving her assertion.

Now she raises her blue eyes and stares into mine. "They have a complete lack of empathy. It's tragic, in a way. Can you imagine being so empty inside?"

"That would be awful."

She eyes me up and down, slowly and without shame. "So, how can I help you?"

"Oh... Um, the owner of the Mercedes-Benz S-Class left their lights on." Her expression doesn't change. "In the parking lot."

She turns the page. "No, they didn't."

Some unattractive hybrid of a cough and laugh escapes my throat. "They didn't?"

"No."

"Could you make an announcement anyway? I would hate for--"

"--I'm the owner, I didn't leave the lights on, I never leave the lights on. Happy?" I apologize and tell her I must have been mistaken. Just before I reach the exit, she calls to me: "Is that the best you can do?"

Now I'm genuinely confused. "Exactly what is it I'm trying to do?"

"Come on. You're telling me you came in here just to be a good samaritan? If you want a date, just ask."

She really is something. I'm about to tell her off when snapshots of that six-figure car play in my head. She's a little young, but maybe I can make an exception this one time. "You're right. I should be more direct. I'm just really bad at this sort of thing."

She smiles the way she would at a puppy learning to walk. "You're lucky you're cute."

"My one redeeming quality." Now we share smiles. "Could I get your number? I mean, after I get your name."

The librarian extends her hand. "I'm Eileen."

Her

I gave him my real name. What the hell am I doing? I usually have no qualms about firing off a Rebecca or a Helen or a Denise. Misleading these bumbling suitors has become a second nature, something that requires no thought, no hesitation. But I couldn't lie to him. There's something different about this one. He gives me a rush I haven't felt in a long time. Not since...

"Mornin', hun. What can I get you?" The wrinkled server hovers over her order pad, clutching a pen engraved with the name of this shit hole: "Stumpy's Diner."

"I'll just have a water," I say to the disappointment of my grumbling stomach.

A man strolls in and sits two stools down. He has a two-tone Canadian tuxedo and a jet black ponytail. I generally find ponytails revolting, but this is kind of hot. He coaxes out a Lucky Strike, lights up, and exhales through his nostrils. I generally find smoking revolting, but this is kind of hot. He watches me take a sip of water and declares, "Not much of a meal."

"Don't have much money," I reply.

"Your parents?" I shake my head. "I didn't get along with mine either."

I chomp an ice cube. "I don't want to talk about it."

He leans in so his head is over the next-door stool: "What do you want to talk about?"

"I want to know why you're talking to an underage girl."

"Well, I wasn't aware of that until this very moment."

"Now you are, so stop." I flag down the waitress. "Ma'am, does this place have a birthday special?"

The friendly prune whirls around. "Of course, dear. How old are you turning?"

"Sixteen."

"Aww. I just need a ID, pretty girl."

"Would a library card work?"

"It got your birth date?"

"No."

"Then I'm sorry, sugar."

I can tell ponytail is listening by his stupid, smug smile. He pretends to peruse the menu, but he's a horrible actor. "Fine," I say. "Get me the damn breakfast."

Ponytail raises a finger. "One birthday special and a cup of black coffee."

I motion for the idiot to sit next to me and he obliges. "What's your deal?" I ask.

"I don't have a deal. I came for coffee."

"No, I mean what do you do? Like for a job?"

"I'm a freelancer."

"What does that entail?"

"It entails a lot of things."

"You make good money?"

"Enough to pay for a stranger's meal. Even if she is entirely devoid of charm."

"Shut up! I have charm."

"You certainly have something. I wouldn't call it charm."

"Whatever. I have to piss."

When I return from the restroom, I'm greeted by the best birthday present a girl could ask for: a double stack of fluffy, still-steaming pancakes; bacon with crispy charcoal edges and glistening brown stripes; and two fried eggs big enough to be from an ostrich. There are no words, only scarfing, during those five minutes that I massacre my breakfast. As I'm licking the last morsels from my plate, the ponytail man asks, "Feel better?" I nod. He slaps a hundred dollar bill against the counter. "Keep the change," he says.

"What did you say you do again?" I ask.

"Freelancer. And it just so happens I could use a charm-less apprentice. Judging by the way you inhaled your breakfast, I'd say you could use the work." He abandons half a cup of coffee as he slithers out. "What do you say?"

I know I shouldn't be following strange men with ponytails. I am very aware. However, the hundred and the hormones are clouding my judgment. I rise from the stool and decide to see what's behind the door.

Thirty years later, I feel like I'm walking through the same door when I pick up my phone.

Him

I'm not even across the street when Eileen calls. There's a county fair tonight. This may seem a little sudden, but it's the last night and she really wants to go. There's just something about county fairs. Meet her in the game area at 6 pm sharp, by the arcade. I wonder what game she's trying to play with me. I hope it's not as one-sided as the ones at the fair.

Eileen shows up 40 minutes late and doesn't apologize. The way she looks, she doesn't have to. "What are you thinking?" she asks. So many things. "How about we start with the ring toss?"

I've seen enough rings lately. "Nah. Rigged. They grease up the bottle necks."

"Ooh. We've got a games-of-chance insider. How about the target shoot?"

"I don't really like guns."

She narrows her eyes and scans the village of garishly lighted gaming shanties. "A-ha!" she proclaims, taking me by the arm. "I've got the perfect game for a physical specimen such as yourself." We weave through the sea of fairgoers, her hand exploring my bicep, and finally arrive at something like a giant thermometer.

"Ring the bell, and win a prize for your lovely lady!" the rat-faced man shouts. "Come on, muscles. What d'ya say?" Before I have my say, he forces an oversized wooden mallet into my hands. I suppose I'll give it a shot, so long as he doesn't mind parting with an entire shipment of stuffed animals. Years of skull-splitting shovel swings have given me perfect form, and I uncork such a ferocious wallop that my victims feel it in their shallow graves. The puck rockets up the tower, but some unseen force stops it a whisker short of the bell. The rat man grins through his whiskers. "Tough break, fella." Now he addresses Eileen: "How about you? Win a prize for your wimpy boyfriend?"

Eileen takes the mallet and, without hesitation, smashes the lever with unexpectedly impressive force. It's nowhere near as powerful as my swing, but the bell rings victorious nonetheless. Eileen shoots me with a smirk. "Pick your prize, weakling," she says. I'm a good sport now, but I don't know about later. The least ostentatious option is a teddy bear clutching a pink heart pillow. As we depart, me holding my new plush friend, the rat man gives Eileen a little wink.

A voice stops me: "I hope you have a permit for cougar hunting." There's only one man I know obnoxious enough to open a conversation like this. I'm not surprised when I see Marty, but I am surprised to see his date, an attractive young girl from the gym. What is she doing with him? "Just joshin' ya, pal," Marty says with a customary back slap. "Oh, how rude of me. This is Skye."

I shake her hand. "Nice to meet you. I think I've seen you around the gym."

"I know I've seen you around," Skye says as she refuses to let go of my hand, the lust in her eyes palpable. I can read her like a book. The young ones are the easiest. I introduce my date, whom I read more like a Chinese instruction manual. When Marty suggests we all go for a ride on the Ferris wheel, Eileen lies and says we have dinner plans. Skye seems devastated. I, however, am eternally grateful.

It turns out Eileen wasn't being entirely untruthful, as we break from the festivities for an elegant offering of funnel cakes. Though a taste of fried foods every now and then won't kill me, someone is going to die for this. Might as well make it worthwhile. I drown my funnel cake in strawberry syrup and devour the bloody viscera. While I'm chowing down, Eileen hurls a question that nearly makes me choke:

"So, what's your body count?"

She's good, but she can't be this good. I play dumb. "Pardon me?"

"How many people have you slept with? A good-looking guy like yourself, I bet it's a lot."

Relief washes over me, and I settle back into my persona. I answer with a mouthful of masticated dough: "My body count, huh? You'd be surprised."

"Come on. You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

"Are you sure you want to discuss such unsavory matters?"

"You know it. I'm one of those kinky librarians you're always hearing about. And, despite the fact that I was married for 16 years, I've still managed to rack up my fair share of bodies."

In my profession, there is not a more effective pairing than sexual frustration and grief. The former is oozing from Eileen; the latter, however, had been entirely absent until midway through that last sentence, when she mentioned her marriage. Her voice carried the slightest note of sadness before returning to its unflappable homeostasis. I go in for the kill: "Sixteen years. That's a long time. Do you mind me asking what happened?"

"He died," Eileen says. She pauses as if deciding how much of her guts she wants to spill to a virtual stranger. "Lung cancer. I don't really like to talk about it."

That's more than enough for me. "Completely understandable. Forget I mentioned it." I consume the last of my funnel cake. "You know what? Maybe we should take a stab at that ring toss after all."

Eileen's lips curl into a devious smile. "I've got a better idea."

Into the black night we ride, me admiring the luxury car's features and Eileen admiring my features. After roughly 20 minutes of excessive speeding, she parks amongst the lonely cacti in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. Isn't this my job? The stars are spilled across the sky, God's postmodern art masterpiece. Eileen kills the motor and we savor the sexual tension's silence. It took a little longer than usual, but now I know exactly what she wants. She leans in close and says:

"You never told me what you do. You know, for work."

Like a Chinese instruction manual. I try to laugh, but it sounds more like a wounded animal. Then I proceed to tell her what my job would be like if I weren't murdering old women. I end with: "Something new every day."

Eileen responds with a squint/pursed-lips pairing. "So, do you enjoy it? Or is it just a job?"

"Maybe it was at first. Worked in an office once. Never wanted to go back. I guess this was my escape." She waits for me to elaborate, doesn't say a word. "So a carpenter is hired to perform a job, right? Build a guest room, replace your cabinets. They do it. And they take pride in their work. The good ones, at least. But do they really enjoy it? I don't know. Over time, though, each precise measurement and hammered nail becomes part of them; it flows through their veins. Their work is ingrained in them now, a piece of their identity. Maybe it's not so much that they enjoy it, but they surrender to it. Accept it as a part of themselves. Sorry. I'm rambling now. Dumb, isn't it?"

"Not at all," she says, pressing her lips to mine. The blood rushes to my head in an endorphin-firing frenzy, and I don't think this euphoria has anything to do with the prospects of another potential kill. We begin groping frantically, violently. I have to pull back for fear of hurting the resale value of the car. She doesn't slow her aggression, climbing on top of me and grinding. Somewhere in the blur, my shirt and her panties come off, and I feel her warmth.

Neither of us moves, instead appreciating our momentary fusion by staring deep into each other's eyes. I grow inside her, throbbing in anticipation. We remain still except for hearts racing at the idea of what's to come next. For my money, I'd be happy to live the rest of my life in her embrace. Eileen makes this a distinct possibility when she presses a large knife to my naked chest. Well, there are certainly worse ways to go. I prepare for the deep plunge, the old jab through the heart, but--to my surprise--she only drags the blade across my skin. I'm so numb from the adrenaline I don't feel anything, only realizing what she's done when a thin red line materializes in the wake of her knife.

The blood drips slowly, sensually, and Eileen observes it with a kind of fervor in her eyes. She laps the blood up with her tongue and kisses me. I taste the tinny brine of my own hemoglobin. Dopamine and testosterone are firing like assault rifles; I've never been so hard. Eileen starts riding, moaning, gnashing. I join in with pelvic thrusts so violent I'm afraid I'll break her in two. She bounces harder, screaming in ecstasy and pain. She's still drinking my blood like some crazed vampire bat as I pound her with every inch of my being. I didn't know it was possible to get this deep. She's already coming. I dig my nails into her hips as her skirt rises and falls like crashing waves. I don't last very long, collapsing into her heaving chest before I can even break a sweat.

My lust-drunk brain tries to make sense of it all. I've had sex several times in my life. And I've certainly fucked more than I care to admit. It's just part of the job. But this is something entirely new, and I'm not sure whether it's good or bad. Not much is processing at the moment, and I haven't gained anything resembling an advantage. I do, however, reach one conclusion after my first date with Eileen: I'm not going to kill her.