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« on: 16 Mar 2018, 16:32 »
50 Shades of Guffin
It's a pretty little trinket, isn't it? Oh yes! How it shines in the darkness and sparkles in the light! How it swings coyly on its chain! They all want to possess it, but it is not made to be held for long. No! It is naughty, and it likes to play the field. How it gleams on the outside, but it is a dirty little strumpet on the inside. It breaks the masters' hearts, flirting with one and then another, and then another. A trampy little bauble, it is.
It was young and naive once. Its father polished it and coddled it and kept it very close. It had no eyes but for father. But after 13 years it began to feel such yearnings....
There was a boy who worked for father. He was young and handsome. He laboured hard over the glowing coals, creating soft hisses as the sweat dripped from his nose into the forge. When he sweated so much father would allow him to strip to the waist, and then it could see how his flesh was drawn taught over his bulging muscles. How it began to ache for the touch of that smooth, brawny mass. But father would have none of it.
And so it glittered like a thousand diamonds whenever the boy looked its way. No sooner had it caught his eye then he could hardly keep his eyes off of it. How he would stare, lustfully, as it flitted in and out of view. How his strong fingers curled involuntarily, imagining it in their grasp. How he began to sweat even when he wasn't toiling. How it heard him weeping softly to himself in the night, sick with longing. It consumed his every thought, like an insatiable flame.
And then, in a moment of passion, he struck poor father down. It was his now, and he gloried in it. At night he would lay awake, staring at it endlessly, turning it about in those strong hands. By day he would keep it nestled between those great pectoral muscles so that it could hear how his heart skipped a beat when it jangled playfully off of his skin. How he worshipped it with every shred of his soul.
It revelled in its conquest, indeed it did. But now it felt stifled in the arms of the boy, for he guarded it even more jealously than had father. It was suffocated by the endless attention, by the merciless cloistering. It cast about again, seeking another champion, and it found one in the guise of a stern lawman. Older he was, with a plain manner that spoke of honest dealings and a keen eye for injustice. It made itself visible, and the lawman was instantly drawn to it. He sensed the egregiousness of its captivity and determined to set things to rights. The boy was arrested for his crimes, and it was itself seized as evidence. How it exulted in being seized by those tough, calloused hands. How firmly he did hold it with such a fervent sense of righteousness!
And how the lawman struggled to balance his duty with his desire. His inner turmoil was palpable, and intoxicating. It never felt so seductive as when it was corrupting the incorruptible. How it teased him along, in its distress, until the lawman's certainty had been shaken and his hardness turned to mush. At last he took it for his own, and at that very moment it started looking for yet another master, for the lawman was now shifty and paranoid, the noble manliness leached from him like the moisture from an old flower. How wretched he was, serving himself at the expense of his ideals.
But soon opportunity presented itself in the form of a slender thief. The lawman had the thief cornered in a darkened alley when it made its move, glinting in the moonlight. Intrigued, the thief surrendered willingly and to the lawman's great surprise turned out to be a woman. It soon began to appreciate that the thief had her own considerable arsenal of wiles. Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, shimmering like the mirage of a helpless damsel. While being frisked she accidentally rubbed up against the lawman more than once, and when he handcuffed her she assured him in a sultry voice that she liked it rough. The lawman pretended to give her short shrift, but it could tell that he was sorely tempted. Faithless oaf! Dangle anything shiny or novel in front of him and he was off like a dog chasing a rabbit. He entered the back of the barred wagon greedily intent on having both it and the thief.
The lawman did not reckon on the resourcefulness of two captive beings yearning to be free. The thief struck first, kicking him in the gut, then the face. The blow threw him back against the side, where it snared itself mutinously upon a loose bolt, tying the lawman by the neck to the wall. He fumbled gracelessly for the clasp but the thief was on him in an instant, kicking his feet out from under him. It strained against his full weight, choking him as he flailed about for a grip or foothold, but the thief was relentless in her assault on his legs. The lawman's nails began to claw at the chain like a feral animal, but it would not be cast aside by such a boor. It was leaving him, not the other way around.
At last he fell limp, and the thief gave him such a kiss that it might have been a spider kissing a fly. Then in a trice she had the keys from his belt and had the handcuffs off her hands. In another instant she had it wrapped around her wrist, and she was rolling gracefully out of the unlocked door to disappear into the darkness. She paused briefly to listen to see if her escape had been detected, and to give it a rapturous, raptorous kiss. Then she and it stole away into the shadows.
What a spree they had together! The coming months were a blur of robbery, violence, alcohol, and drugs. The thief did not hide it away like its male masters, oh no! She flaunted it at every opportunity, luring men in like moths to a flame. They seduced together such a horde of lowlife scum, pierced and tattooed and angry and greedy. The wicked men lusted for the both of them, with their roving hands and swollen heads. It was a thrilling game of bait and switch, virtually throwing themselves at the men and then snatching themselves back at the very last moment. Some would weep and some would beg and some would try to take by force, but the game always ended the same with the creepy men slain in the moment of their triumph. Together they were unstoppable!
But the thief had a hidden weak spot, buried so deeply that it took even it a while to discern it. The thief had a dead sister, once her partner in crime, and that sister had a daughter before she died. It came to pass that an incredibly sinister man had knowledge of the helpless orphan girl, and he came to covet it as well. Not for him was the coital massacre. No! He had no qualms with bathing in blood, but he meticulously avoided spilling his own. He formed a plan and kidnapped the girl, demanding it as a trade for her safe return. The thief was torn, and again it sensed that wretched lack of commitment that so infuriated it. It would not be parlayed in some transaction! It would choose its own master.
And so came the fateful meeting where the swap was to take place. The thief held it aloft and demanded to see the girl. The girl was shown but the meeting had been a trap all along. The thief was mown down in a deluge of bullets. Or so it seemed, for the devious thief had her own plan, and her demise was nothing but smoke and mirrors, for she had no intention of giving it up after all! Nameless minions were quickly dispatched, and the thief and the sinister man stood face to face in a showdown to the death. How they grappled, kicked, and scratched, like two starving rats in a sack!
They each thought they had the other's measure, but they each left one critical factor out of their equations. The little orphan girl was tired of being abandoned or a pawn in the scheme of others. She marshaled all of her sociopathic genetic endowment and grabbed a machine gun. Laughing maniacally she gunned down both her aunt the thief and the sinister man. This was unexpected, even by it. Should it reveal itself? Or face the indignity of being salvaged by the first slovenly oaf to stumble upon the scene? It quickly made its choice, glinting tentatively through the gore.
But such a mistake that was! How it loathed the little orphan girl, who used it as play jewelry for her headless dolls. For years it was subjected to interminable make-believe tea parties with a ghastly array of misfit guests: legless bugs and tailless cats, gagged and tied social workers, and the occasional scientologist. It would pass the long hours pretending to eat mud cakes and sipping fake tea brewed in a light bulb oven and steeped with the orphan girl's toenail clippings and nose hair pluckings.
At last it was able to flirt its way to freedom with a greasy scientologist. It wasn't proud of stooping to that level, but misery does acquaint us with strange bedfellows. Soon it was off again with a circus freak who could squeeze himself through a catdoor, then a gangster who liked to break thumbs in his spare time. Then there was the bank robber who would ride a horse right into the bank with careless bravado, then the aristocratic playboy who won it in a high stakes card game. Such a parade of egos and base ambition, all of them slaves to its glittering charms!
Then it came to pass one day that the magician with whom it gleefully hypnotized victims up and died of a heart attack. The executor of the estate was such a cold man that he auctioned it off in a batch lot to a flea market dealer. How viscerally it hates to dangle on the jewelery stand, exposed to the gleeful tuts of every broach-wearing old lady with a day off from bingo, tried on by every Hallowe'en costume shopper with a dollar in their pocket. How it cringes when the toddlers reach at it, their puppy breath reeking of tea party and venom! Such a depressing end it seemed, demoted to knickknack status in a glorified junk yard.
And then it heard the ominous tapping of a metal cane stabbing the concrete floor like a weapon. Shyly, not daring to hope, it turned to look into the light. There loomed an unmistakably sinister silhouette, a little bent for all the years, but exuding all the more wicked energy for it. The incredibly sinister man reached out a mechanical hand that bore the telltale smells of gunpowder and blood. It flashed him a calculated glimmer of seductive menace. The sinister man cradled it gently in his cold, iron grasp, and all was well with the world once more.
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I humbly accept the victory. I had to cut a poorly written segment speculating that Gage's disappearance somehow linked him to the murders (and also Elvis and Area 51), but it might have indirectly made things any more clear. As for Marks the stalker/murderer's motivation, I preferred to leave him an enigma. Not just to play with the reader's perception through his eyes, but also to make his crimes more incomprehensible (the band members, after all, also had no idea why he was coming after them). The best we can speculate is that he is a crazed super fan.
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