Short Stories : Queen of the Sluts

Short Stories : Queen of the Sluts

A quick glance from her cell phone up at the bus stop scoreboard. How she pulls up one of her dark eyebrows - there is something of decency in her gaze. Beautiful in its own way, really fascinating. That was extremely impressive, even for a bitch.

The ad says something like five minutes. Occasionally she jumps back up to six, but then levels off again to five. Only four at a time. Then three - then two.

Now she lights another cigarette, just before. Stupid idea.

Such sluts always come up with stupid ideas. As soon as the bus arrives, she'll just throw the butt in the snow, mark her area, and piss off like sluts do. It is difficult to see from here which hooker sticks she smokes, but that doesn't matter anymore. That belongs to the “u. U ”. Unimportant information.

Tens of thousands of snowflakes frolic in the light cone of the lonely street lamp under the bus stop. This moment is as unique as these flakes and just as fleeting. But it is predetermined. All these hundreds of thousands of snowflakes that form crystals in icy heights, plunge from the sky and are destined to land at the feet of this sow. All of them testify to their sloppiness. How she stands and smokes there with her boots in the snow. Disgusting.

Now the bus is coming. At last. He wonders how long he could have held it out.

Line 37, the old, fat woman at the wheel. The bus doors open and she gets in. Just show the ticket briefly, then to the very back. No one else is on board, unusual for the night lines. The journey continues, her head can still be seen from the back window of the bus. He turns the key and starts the ignition, whereupon the car comes out of hibernation on the driveway opposite the bus stop and throws two cones of light onto the street. He briefly turns on the wipers, then takes his hand out of his jacket pocket and releases the handbrake.

 

He had done it that way many times, but today everything felt different. Everything is like new. So exciting that he can’t do it properly as usual. His hands on the steering wheel are cold and sweaty. And of course he has no disinfectant with him. He is afraid that his excitement could make mistakes. He is afraid that if this happens, he will not be able to. His mixed feelings scare him. But it is far too late for a retreat.

 

Then he focuses on you again - rather the back of your head. There is a light on the bus while driving and he can see through the bus window how she is putting something on her ear. Your phone. She's probably on the phone with him. Maybe with a friend. Most of them are sluts too, but they have no comparison to this specimen. Behind this disk sits the slut's birth, Patient Zero, a disgusting, low creature, covered with a layer of sugar that had to be cracked.

He reaches deeper into his steering wheel and grits his teeth. He will be able to, if he has to, he knows. The bus stops and takes a drunken bum. Disgusting.

Apart from bums and sluts, there isn't much else going on at this time. However, the night bus is surprisingly empty. The universe focuses only on Him - and on you. He doesn't believe in anything, but he still has the feeling that someone is watching him. Looks closely over his shoulder and gives the thing as much weight as he does. It calms him that he is not alone with it. Gratitude may also play a role, he can no longer grasp it exactly.

Suddenly he notices that he almost missed his entrance. With a hectic movement he tears the steering wheel to the right. He curses for this abnormality and bites his lower jaw more tightly. Struggling for control, the car slides into the alley and soon disappears into the dark. Somehow he manages to stop without taking anything with him. He pulls the key and the lights go out, just shining a garbage can. Then he takes a short breath. Error-free because of. He would fail if he went on like this. None of this was acceptable. Still, he will be able to, if he has to, he knows.

 

Time to get out. Hat and gloves are in the glove compartment. He already carries the chemical with him, in case they stop him and search his car. Only the key is still missing, but he knows exactly where to find it. He gets out of his car and quietly closes the door. A trained eye examines the windows in the back yard. Curtains and yellowed plexiglass panes block his view of the inside - an advantage that is based on mutuality. It makes him feel safe, as if this now familiar alley belongs to him - his basis, so to speak. You could start from here, but from now on he has to be careful and will do everything right.

He trudges off and the thought that each shoe leaves an individual impression in the snow pops into his head. Maybe not quite as individual as the millions of snowflakes in the sky above him, but at least unique enough to narrow a group of people from thousand to fifty. If you now compared the availability of the chemical in your jacket pocket with certain databases and lists of pharmacies in the area, the number would be a spotlight that directed its spotlight to only one person. That was the risk. He knew it, he had thought about it often enough and weighed the pros and cons. And now it was time to act. No sugar without a toothache. His face crunches like snow. He walks through the garden gate, which is no longer that strange, and dives into the shadow of the building plot. The family probably has a child, because they built a house in the garden before they finished building the actual house. It is no bigger than a dwarf house, made for the little ones. A lanky, large shadow now disappears in the small archway. He takes a seat on the tiny wooden bench inside and peers through the heart window at the property opposite. What is presented to him is the familiar sight, where he becomes comfortably warm.

Mr. Baumer is looking for the right remote control to change the channel while his wife scurries through the living room again. By the time he found the right remote control, she had crossed the living room twice. Equipped with a large panoramic window, the living room is the largest room on the ground floor and runs along the entire house facade. If both kitchen doors are open, you can even look into the hallway. It's perfect, he thinks. Today is his day.

As expected, Mr. Baumer tunes in a children's transmitter while he tries to reduce the volume with another remote control. It is a familiar sight that you can enjoy from the Herzchenhütte. The Baumers are nice, decent people. Too bad they chose a bitch like that. People like the Baumers are probably not aware of this. Such sluts are usually helpless. A pity, he thinks. Not everyone has an eye for that.

Punctually on the second, he looks at the street next to the property. There she is just coming down the sidewalk. Four minutes from the bus stop here. There she runs in her boots, like with stilts on ice, presents her sugar layer to the whole world. How can you be so wrong? Basically, she's begging for it.

The cozy warmth of just turns into a oppressive heat and it grips the snow-covered window frame. Cold and yet burning. A warning to rest. He remembers that someone is watching him. Someone is always watching. Keeping calm is important now, everything else is part of stage fright.

Now she turns onto the property, looks at her cell phone again, rings the doorbell and puts it in her ridiculous handbag. He can see that Ms. Baumer is right behind the front door, she looks at herself in the mirror one last time. She is startled at the Dingdong. From this perspective, it's all like a sitcom, in which the actors take turns entering and leaving the stage. At the same time, Mr. Baumer, who had briefly lost himself on the children's channel, is now also moving. He disappears further down the hall. He'll probably go to the nursery. When the front door opens you can only hear a vague greeting from the little house. Small talk, something sluts have always been good at. If you are not careful, this can quickly doom a careless person. The Baumers are living proof.

As expected, Mr. Baumer returns with little Ellie in his arms. He puts her in this cage for kids, pink and fluffy, but still a cage. You have switched, the cage is now right next to the kitchen door and no longer at the TV. Now he goes to the others and leaves little Ellie alone. It is two. Or three. Difficult to see from a distance, but after today he would be able to make a better assessment.

Finally the Baumers let the bitch in. The host even has the courtesy to shake her hands. If only he knew what else she was doing with it. The three say goodbye and the Baumers leave the house. Mr. Baumer forms a cell phone with his hand and gestures around between him and the bitch. As expected, his wife points again with his index finger to the spare key, which is hidden in an outside lamp on the house. Perfect to take away; The key-to-go, so to speak, the ticket to the chocolate factory.

Then they get in their station wagon and soon afterwards their taillights turn at the end of the street. They drive to the Mexican in traffic and smoothness for about fifteen minutes. Food was usually consumed in about twenty to thirty minutes. At least if you started from yourself, but he already has experience. Such an evening was happy to take up more time. In addition to the time for ordering and preparing the food in a restaurant, there were also a lot of social customs that could stretch out a romantic evening. But he stretches as far as possible on the wooden bench and waits. He is waiting for Ms. Baumer, who might have forgotten something. Or Mr. Baumer, who suddenly got sick again. Something like that happened every now and then. But above all, he's waiting for his bitch. He wants to see sloppiness.

His undisturbed view through the panoramic window now shows the bitch who takes her cell phone out of her jacket on the stand. A handle to the kitchen cupboard later she has a glass in her hand and pours herself cola light.

His hand reaches automatically, but unconsciously, into his jacket pocket. He gropes for the syringe, for the protective cap, he strokes his thumb over it. When he grasps it, he thinks of the lethal liquid inside the cannula. It was his cocktail, his fabric, his very own mix. A custom creation, already tested, but never on a human. For a brief moment, he feels the sting, everything beyond: speculative - damn everything that happens afterwards, pure speculation. His parents' picture flickers in front of him. He is proud of himself when he thinks of her.

Now she goes to the sofa and starts changing the transmitter. She zaps wildly through the many channels of "tree-like" pay TV, kindly provided by the homeowners. In between, it gets stuck, sometimes it's difficult to see what it's about. It's all a pretty boring start, he thinks. He slumps a bit and finds a much more comfortable sitting position in which his butt is no longer squeezed. He has to be patient. And so a few moments of his watch pass in complete calm and silence; a heart-shaped eye, always staring in the cold wind of the night.

Then finally she shows the first signs, she goes back to the kitchen and uses the fridge. She comes back with a plate, estimated lunch, and sits in front of little Ellie. The bitch starts to eat, talking to the child. Then she gets up and removes all the toys from the plush cage. A classic entry. Nothing special, but a start. First, Ellie is thrown off with her cuddly toys, whereby the precision and strength of the throws increases almost exponentially. Next she takes the things off the plate. When they are in the cage, she goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge and continues her acting with other leftovers. He knows Ellie has some allergies. Can the Baumers be trusted to fill their fridge with it? He hesitates and slides back and forth on the bench impatiently. Ellie acknowledges these actions with crying, but the child is brave, he thinks. While he is watching everything, the inner heat comes back. An impatience, furious and burning, much stronger than usual. Maybe because tonight is? He doesn't feel prepared at all. He notes that in some situations, waiting for the right moment can be the most difficult in the world. What was he waiting for?

Now she walks around the kitchen in an inspecting manner, and interest in the refrigerator is lost. Then she grabs her cell phone and takes a picture of the child. Although he cannot be seen, he extends a hand from his heart to greet him. She seems to be writing to someone and having a great time. A few messages later, she goes back to the kitchen and operates the kettle's switch. Then take washcloths out of the drawer and place them in front of the stove. That was new, but it wasn't the first time that surprised him. Excited about what will happen next, he moves closer to the window. Suddenly she stops her preparations and looks at her cell phone. A call, she answers it. He doesn't know the name of the guy yet. But he recognizes their laughter when the two of them are on the phone. Then she looks like a stupid rabbit to whom straw is held out.

"This is the moment," says someone behind him. He thinks the same thing. It is not yet in full swing, but now is the moment. There would be no better option. He feels a hint of clarity. He turns from the window and leaves the little house. Just a few big steps through the snow, then a sentence across the boxwood and he's in the Baumerland.

The paved garden path leads him to the wall of the house, just don't fall now. Finally he reaches into the lamp and gets the spare key with which he now carries himself along the wall towards the front door. His shaky sweaty hands don't let him get to the door lock properly, but suddenly he's inside. He has never seen the armchair there, just as little as the pictures of the family that line the stairs. These were completely new perspectives. He knows the open door on his right, however, as well as the mirror. On his reflection surface, the slut can see her cell phone clamped on the back of her neck, just taking the hot water from the stove. Like a long-lost, most painfully missing son, he moves into the kitchen. The syringe in his hand, his homecoming gift.

He imagines a family portrait, grinning broadly in the middle, photographed and framed in some staircase. He is really proud that he also thinks about his own parents.

Author : Marlon Fischer