Disclaimer: these girls are mine, they may look familiar and act familiar but
they are all mine. Cause we know the world is chock full o’ fine looking
chicks like these, right?
Language: yes, I use the “F” word
Sex: Of course there is sex. Depictions of consenting adults participating in
same sex unions and possibly light BDSM scenarios; so if you are vanilla, be
warned that this is dark chocolate, both bitter and sweet.
Violence: some and shit gets blown up too!
Gun
Control
The sixth Skin Deep story
By Black Cherry
Chapter
One:
"You don't need to bother"
“What
the fuck?” Torrid Duncan shot up in her bed, shaking. The room spun as her
eyes tried to make the adjustment from the darkness of sleep to the brightness
of the bedside lamp. The scream was shrill, female, and it had ripped her from
her slumber. She ran to the window—the source of the sound and scanned the
street behind her studio and the alley below. Nothing. What the fuck was
that?
Torrid’s heart was in her
throat. She let out a deep breath as she put her glock back under her pillow.
The digital clock was reading 4:45 a.m.
Oh there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep after that shit. I guess
I’ll read a while.
“Any witnesses?” Detective Arial Ryder asked the uniformed officers who were first to the crime scene that lay before her.
“Not one.”
“Shit.”
“Indeed.”
“Keep the area clear til
the CSI gets here. Then turn it over to them. I want to see your incident
report.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
Ariel Ryder stepped under the
crime scene tape that closed off the alleyway behind a series of bars and
restaurants in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood. Traditionally an artsy,
hippie, progressive part of town, the intersection where Montrose Boulevard
meets Lower Westheimer street has always been the epicenter of gay night life in
the city. Most of the surrounding homes and apartments are occupied by gays, the
businesses owned and operated by gays, or at the least are gay friendly, and
this was considered to be Houston’s gay Mecca.
Arial Ryder, a homicide
detective with HPD, mid thirties, attractive, athletic had always been good at
her job, until now.
Who are you, you bastard? Ariel’s
thoughts took her through the list of all the victims that had been found in
this area in the past month. Her worst fears were being realized. A serial is
in our midst.
That familiar sweet sick
feeling rose up in her stomach, it’s a serial. Back in college the case
files had fascinated her, reading on the most notorious cases. True crime had
been her obsession as a teenager, and she read every book on it that she could
get her hands on. Her teenage daydreams of being a super cop and catching serial
killers gave way to nausea, as the reality would never measure up to the
fantasy. It was not glorious, rather, it was grim.
The next morning, Torrid let
out a sigh and stretched, deciding to get up and shower and get on with her day.
She had a lot to do today, shopping for wedding rings, meeting with the wedding
planner and having lunch with. Shit…her mother.
It’d been years since
Torrid had seen her mother, having been estranged from one another when Torrid
came out to her as a teen. Torrid had ran away from home to avoid the conversion
camp her mother had slated her to go to for shaming the family and embracing a
damned lifestyle. Now here she was, meeting her for lunch at Drelica’s behest,
to mend fences and see if a mother’s love could rise above society’s
indoctrinated bigotry. How the
fuck did I get myself into this shit? Torrid thought as she turned the
shower on and stepped inside.
Saturday morning service at
the Judgment Church of God’s Everlasting love: “God wants gays to die!”
Reverend Abner Smyth shouted across the meeting hall with all the conviction of
a man on a holy mission from God himself. “They are an abomination! They live
in sin! They fly in the very face of conformity! They are diseased, immoral, and
of the devil! They must be stopped so that their immortal souls can be
redeemed!”
“Amen!” a voice shouts
from the gallery, “Death to all queers!” Cheers break out in the rented
hall, and fists shake in the air. “Kill all the queers! Burn the faggots!
Purge the sin and let their souls go home to God!”
“Amen, brother Smyth…you
are a true prophet of the Lord!” Virgillia
And now the only way she
could help her daughter was to save her immortal soul.
Years had passed with no word from her wayward child, and she had thought
her lost for all time, until last week when a phone message had been left on her
machine. Her daughter, Melinda Bairn Duncan was alive, and reaching out to her
for help. Hallelujah! Now she could
help her daughter, cure her of this disease, and save her soul. Reverend Smyth
had promised her—he could do just that every thing.
There is a magical feeling of
unity and solidarity here, at the Church of God’s Everlasting Love.
Dr. Drelica Truman watched birds fluttering and landing on the bird feeder of her high rise apartment balcony as she pinched off a piece of her bran muffin and sipped her espresso. The sunshine made the park below look inviting, and she longed to go out and play. She had been working overtime since her return from Hawaii, and even though she was tired, she was very fulfilled. She was, after all, going to get married, and she needed the extra money. Drelica had been looking at houses, though she hadn’t mentioned it to Torrid yet, and she was daydreaming of her slice of the American pie. These were indeed happy times as Torrid and she planned their future together. After what seemed an eternity of unhappiness, Drelica was finally living her dream. She had a good career, and the woman of her dreams, and now, she was going to help Torrid reconnect with her mother and perhaps help her love have some closure to some painful events in her past. At least, that was her plan.
“Okay, we’ll set it up over there in that corner.” Homicide detective Ariel Ryder said as she and her task force entered the small HPD substation in Houston’s Montrose neighborhood. “Oh great and there’s a 24 hour deli next door—we’ll be here long hours as it is, it’s good to know we can get a schmere and a cheesecake!” Detective Ryder and her team of undercover officers were setting up a base of operations for their task force, in the heart of the killer’s hunting ground. The substation was located centrally in the club/bar district where most of the murders had taken place after hours. Most of the victims were gay males, but lately there have also been females turning up as well. It was March, and Spring Break was around the corner. The clubs and streets would be full of young thrill seekers from both sides of the fence looking for a good time. It would be a picnic buffet for the serial, and she was going to be ready.
“Detective,” said Officer Craig, a young good looking African American policeman.
“What is it, Craig?”
“How do you know it’s a serial? There’s a lot of violence down here, just look where we are? Drugs, drinking, homeless people, tattooed freaks running around all over the place, not to mention hustlers—maybe its just business as usual.”
“Wow… Officer Craig, I wouldn’t have had you pegged of all people for a bigot.”
“No, no—I didn’t mean anything of the kind, Detective Ryder. It’s just—the whole culture of this neighborhood circles around sex, drugs and drinking. What if it’s just random crimes and all of this is a coincidence?”
“Unlikely given the evidence and the nature of the murders. That and we received this—“
Ariel Ryder held up a letter enclosed in a Mylar evidence pouch. “It’s a love letter—from our friend.”
“Shit. Whoa…I mean, uh…damn.”
“Damn
indeed, Officer. “
“Fuck!”
Torrid was rushing around looking for the keys to her bike when her cell started
vibrating in her pocket.
“Yeah? Oh hey Dre---uh, yeah I’m on my way out the door now. You’re coming, right? I mean, this was all your fuckin’ idea, and—okay. Yeah. See you there. Sigh Me too.”
Torrid
closed her cell phone and put it in her pocket. She spied her keys on the
counter and snatched them up. She grabbed her helmet and shades and locked the
door behind her as she stepped out into the Spring morning.
I am an angel of the lord. I am sent
as a messenger divine, with the wisdom and teaching of God in heaven. The
message is simple: Sodom must fall. The modern Sodom and Gomorrah that has risen
in our city is a vile corruption, which the Lord God has charged me with
bringing down. I am the Avenging Angel.
“Well
we hit the jackpot with this guy,” said Detective Ryder. “A religious wacko
and a killer.”
“I guess we know where to
start looking---at all the churches. Anyone preaching a message of hate or
fear.” Officer Kevin Willis offered up.
“Ha! That would be all of
them! I don’t know if we’re
going to find this guy in a congregation somewhere, but we might find him
preaching in one of his own. But I’m thinking, this brand of self-righteous
delusion comes from more of a fringe mentality, not an established church. After
all, churches are first and foremost a business, and this guy, would be bad for
business.”
“So we should look at the
shelters, the street corners, the roving prophets?” Officer Craig asked.
“It’s a place to start.
Check city hall—see if any oddball groups applied for permits to protest for
Pride, or the AIDS walk, or any gay related events. We’ve got a dangerous
religious hate criminal out there killing citizens of our city. We want to find
him and find him fast. Or spring break will be an all you can eat buffet for his
dark hungry god.”
“Welcome to Baba Yaga's,
how many in your party?”
“Two.” Virgillia
Duncan-Cartwright replied to the host of the Montrose area bistro. “But no
smoking, please.”
“Of course, right this
way.”
“Smoking is an evil and
sinful vice.”
“Yes, of course. Would you
like a table inside or on the patio? It’s such a beautiful day—rare to have
such low humidity this time of the year.” Said the host with a smile, which
went unreturned.
“Outside is fine.”
“Alrighty then, right this
way.”
Virgillia scowled at the
young man seating her. She did not approve of his overt homosexual behavior. His
swishy manner, and his effeminate voice and laugh were most offensive to her. It
seemed as though sick and diseased people who were allowed to roam free
surrounded her, flaunting their sickness and immorality in the faces of normal,
God fearing people. But it would
all soon come to an end. This den
of sin would not last forever. God would see to that.
Torrid circled the block
scoping out the restaurant. She couldn’t see anyone who resembled her mother.
But then again, it had been twenty years since she had laid eyes on the woman.
She had no idea what to expect, except possibly, the worst.
Torrid pulled into the parking lot and parked her bike next to the ramp
that led to the front door. Baba Yaga’s was once a house, converted into a
bistro by the industrious and ever creative gay business owners.
The charm and urban neighborhood feel of the Montrose could be attributed
to gay ingenuity, even though suburbanites were selling their homes and moving
into the Gay Mecca regularly.
Then they get in here and
want to change everything and everyone to be more like them….no thanks. Torrid
thought with disgust. She really despised people who tried to shape others in
their image of the ideal.
Stepping inside,
Torrid was greeted by the host, and led outside to the patio to the table
where her grousing mother was seated. Upon
seeing her, Torrid’s first reaction was, how frail she looks. The years have
not been kind.
“Excuse me ma’am,” the
young host said, “I believe your party have arrived.”
Virgillia looked up at the
tall strange creature standing behind the host. Her eyes scanned the figure of a
woman who was like nothing she had ever seen. From what seemed like head to toe
this woman was covered in the most bizarre and dastardly images tattooed on her
person; with rings of steel embedded into her face, and large discs in her ear
lobes like some African tribesman.
“My God.” Was all she
could get out.
“Hello Mom.” Torrid said,
“Nice to see you too.”
“This is impossible. A
nightmare. Melinda—what have you done to yourself?
“Oh..the ink. I should have
told you. I’m a tattooist. I own a shop. I have to look like I know about ink
in order to attract customers, Mom.”
“Tattoos? Melinda, are you
on drugs?”
“No. I’m not on drugs! But
I’m beginning to wish I were. Torrid thought, “Is that all you’ve got
to say to me after all these years?”
“No, of course not,
baby…I’m glad to see you. I’ve prayed and hoped that you would come back
to me one day—and here you are. You’ve come home to me—and to God.”
“Whoah..wait a second.
What’s God got to do with this? I just wanted to have lunch with you,
see how you are, and let you know I’m okay.”
“Okay?
Melinda, have you looked in the mirror?” Her mother said with that
tone; the tone that would drive Torrid out of the house, to be anywhere but
where her mother was. Usually she
hid out in the dojang with Jayce, studying Kimugori. But her mother even said
that was ‘of the devil’.
Just when Torrid was about to
open her mouth and tell her mother to go fuck herself, the waiter appeared to
take a drink order. About damn time. And where the fuck is Drelica? This is
all her fault! I’ll get you baby, I’ll get you…
“Drinks anyone?” Asked
the waiter.
“Whiskey sour and a beer
chaser. Corona if you’ve got it.” Torrid offered. “And, Mom? What ever she
wants.”
“Come on, move it!”
Drelica Truman laid on the horn of her Jeep Liberty. She was stuck in the slow
moving traffic of Saturday shoppers in the lower Westheimer antique district. Weekenders would flock to the
Montrose from the burbs looking for a bit of chique or old world class to spruce
up their cookie cutter condos and town homes with. The shops lined both sides of
the street and pedestrians milled like a herd of cattle between cars who were
going nowhere fast due to the gridlock of bicycles, people and frustrated
drivers.
“Shit, “ Drelica sighed.
“I’m already late…Torrid’s going to kill me.”
Drelica fished for her cell
phone in her over loaded purse, but couldn’t find it anywhere. “Great. Now
she’s really going to kill me.”