“There she is now,” said Mr. Creel, “does she meet with your satisfaction, Mr. Bream?”

Bream leaned forward, peered out the window, breathed in the limo’s brandy-flavored air, the rich, exciting scent of unborn puppy from the soft leather seats. She stood before the hotel less than a block away. The place was nothing fancy, just your standard, second-rate rip-off with bad food and a bar.

“She is quite tasteful, Mr. Creel.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Well fleshed, I’d say.”

“Generously endowed, Mr. Bream.”

“One has to notice that.”

“Stylish, but sensible shoes.”

“Cluck-Cluck!”

“What’s that again, Mr. Bream?”

“What’s what?”

“You said–”

“I don’t believe I said a thing, Mr. Creel.”

“No, certainly not.”

“She’s just the right size,” said Bream.

“Absolutely,” said Creel.”

“Not too tall or too short.”

“A fine and sturdy woman, Mr. Bream.”

“What’s that?” Bream turned stone-dark eyes on Creel. Creel quickly glanced away. It was most discomfiting to hold such a look too long.

“Sturdy,” said Bream, leaning in so close Mr. Creel could count pores, pimples, nose hairs and a speck of something on Mr. Bream’s chin.

“I shall allow your unfortunate choice of words this once,” said Bream, “but not again, sir, not a mote, not a smidgen more, do you hear? And not chubby, either, Mr. Creel. Neither chubby, chunky nor dumpy. Heavy-set bloated blowzy pudgy porky ponderous or plump. I would never tolerate a woman with a single one of those vulgar, onerous qualities. Such a woman does not fit my needs, and I would not hear her described in such an unwomanly manner!”

“So, what do you think of her, Mr. Bream?”

“I love this woman,” said Bream. “She is magnificent. Absolutely perfect. You’ve done very well indeed.”

“I’m grateful, Mr. Bream.”

“Well of course you are, Mr. Creel.”

Mr. Bream opened the door, left the brandy-flavored air and the puppy leather seats. Stepped out into the dark and dreary night, stalked across the empty avenue, left without another look back, thought about a Kansas City steak, thought about a good scotch whisky, a fine cigar. Thought of these things for scarcely a moment, then swept them from his mind, for they were merely things he needed to recall now and then, things other people did. Bream didn’t drink and didn’t smoke, and seldom ate anything at all.

“Cluck! Cluck!” said Mr. Bream.

#

The hotel was half a block away. Bream paused for a moment and studied the girl. She stood quite primly beneath the green awning. The doorman didn’t bother her at all. He knew a hooker when he saw one and clearly didn’t see one now.

Comely, Bream thought. Good carriage, very nice air. Thirties, and scarcely into that. A round and pleasant face. Straw-colored hair cut just below the neck. Dark-colored skirt, a light blue blouse. A shawl of some sort held loosely over one arm, the strap of a purse across her shoulder. She stood beneath the awning for awhile, glancing up the street to her left and to her right. Impatient, thought Bream, but she scarcely let it show. A very good trait, especially in a woman these days.

Checking the street once more, she gently touched her hair, adjusted her skirt, and took a few steps forward. Paused, turned and came back again.

Bream stood perfectly still, rooted, as it were, to the street, still warm from the heat of the day. He watched as she walked, watched as she swayed one way and then the next, watched, and felt his blood begin to stir, felt the rush of that dark and turgid fluid, felt the tremble, felt the shudder through his veins. Every bone, every organ, every muscle, every bodily part begin to hum, thrum, like a finely-tuned engine, one of your fine German or Italian machines, not some crap from Detroit.

“Cluck-cluck-cluck!” said Mr.Bream.

Taking a deep breath, he crossed the street, stopped just before the woman, remembered what to say and then said it.

“I am Marvin Darrel Bream, ma’am. I believe you are waiting here for me.”

The woman smiled, a soft and gentle smile that might have broken Bream’s heart if he noticed gestures such as that.

“I’m Angelina Gorse de Sommes,” the woman said. “I am your date for the evening, Mr. Bream.”

“Yes,” said Bream, “You are.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bream.”

“And why is that, Ms. de Sommes?”

“It’s something you say to people,” Angelina said politely. “For conversation, as it were.”

“Cluck! Cluck!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bream didn’t answer. He simply gripped her arm and led her gently past the doorman. The doorman smiled and tipped his cap.

Angelina looked confused, tried to keep up. “Are we having drinks here, Mr. Bream?”

“Dancing, Mr. Bream?”

“Dinner, Mr. Bream?”

“Mr. Bream?”

“Your breasts are sufficiently large,” said Bream.

“What?” Angelina stopped. Bream tried to bring her along, but she clamped her feet firmly to the ground.

Sensible shoes, thought Bream. He suddenly jerked her hard and broke her free.

“Other parts are quite nice too,” Bream muttered.

“Good buttocks, good thighs…”

“We need to talk, Mr. Bream. You cannot speak to me like that.”

“It is conversation. Something you say to people.”

“Well it certainly is not!”

Bream gripped her arm so tightly Angelina gasped. It was late, and the lobby was nearly empty. A tired bellboy gave the pair a curious look then glanced away again.

Bream shoved her roughly into an open elevator, lifted her off her feet and bounced her off the back wall.

Angelina cried out, shook her head, and wobbled dizzily to her hands and knees. Bream gave her a solid kick and sent her sprawling again.

“Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!” said Mr. Bream.

“Ping! Ping! Ping!” said the elevator and opened with a sigh. Mr. Bream grabbed Angelina by the waist and hauled her up beneath his arm. Angelina cursed and tried to kick free. Bream slapped her hard across the face.

“You have to stop that,” he said. “I don’t like it, it’s very irritating.”

Bream drew his hand away to let her breathe while he worked the plastic card into 304. Once inside, he stalked across the room, ripped the purse from her shoulder and dumped her roughly on the bed.

Angelina sprang up a lot quicker than Bream would have imagined. Standing on the bed, back against the wall, she glared at Bream, her face still stinging. She had lost one shoe, and her skirt was in disarray.

“Okay,” she said, a strand of hair hanging carelessly over one brow, “That’s it. I am out of here, you sick son of a bitch. This is not what I do!”

Bream looked puzzled. “This is what I do, Angelina. Please stop being unpleasant. If you continue behaving like this–”

Bream could scarcely blink before Angelina whipped the shawl off her arm and threw it at him in a blur. He flipped it aside and went at her, leaping onto the bed.

Again, Angelina was half a second faster. She went to her knees, grabbed the lamp by the bed and struck him solidly on the head.

Bream staggered back. He had read about people seeing stars and flashing lights, and now he understood what that was all about. Still, he was on his feet in an instant. Angelina was fast, but she was a woman, and a woman had never bested him yet.

Shaking the stars away, he was after her at once. She had climbed across a couch and was halfway to the door when he leaped off the floor, caught her around the waist and brought her down.

Angelina gasped for air. Too stunned to move, she knew she was being carried, saw the room swim dizzily about, then caught her breath as she hit the bed again. She reached out at once to fight him off, kicked out in a move that would drive his crotch up in his throat. Mr. Bream grabbed her, struck her once more across her face.

Angelina’s defenses kicked in at once. She knew another mistake and this bastard would finish her off for good. She glanced to her left. Bream was gone. Bracing her body against the bed, she flexed her arms to bring herself erect again. This time she’d–

Nothing happened. Her arms wouldn’t move. In those few seconds he’d had her stunned, he’d acted quickly and tied her wrists to the bedposts above.

“You maniac,” she screamed, jerking futilely at her bonds, “let me out of here this minute. You haven’t seen trouble until you’ve tangled with me, you, you freak, you–Whuh?”

Angelina stiffened as Bream suddenly leaped on her out of nowhere, pinning her legs to the bed. For a moment, she wasn’t certain it was Bream it all. A parody of the man, a portrait by a drunken artist, shapes and colors gone awry. Bream in a seizure, caught in a frenzy, in a fit. His whole body quaked, quivered, shivered and shook. Most frightening of all were his eyes, great black marbles afloat in a raging red sea.

“Cluck! Cluck! Cluuuuuuck!” said Bream.

“Get the fuck off of me,” Angelina shouted. “I’ll have you beaten, chained, locked up forever in the dark!”

“Thighs,” Bream sang, in very scary flats, “thighs, thighs, very fine thighs…”

With that, he drew a black marker from his pocket, lifted Angelina’s skirt and began to draw little dashes across her flesh. Made another set of marks below her knees. Leaning back a moment, he droned, moaned, mumbled to himself, then ripped off her blouse, drew black dashes across one breast and then the next.

“Hey,” Angelina yelled, “what the shit do you think you’re doing? Get away from me!”

Bream hummed a little tune, and Angelina tried to pull herself in, make herself smaller, shrink somehow to keep this monster away.

“Breasts, breasts, full and hearty breasts,” sang Mr. Bream. “Very nice indeed…”

Angelina screamed herself hoarse, arched her body to break herself free. If Mr. Bream noticed she was somewhat alarmed, he paid no attention at all. He was busy working on her arms, drawing lines of dashes just beneath her shoulders, under her armpits and back up again.

“I’ll get to that lovely butt a little later,” Bream said. “It might give you some displeasure if we turned you over now.”

“Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!”

Bream hopped right off the bed, then promptly disappeared from sight. Angelina had no idea where he’d gone. That worried her a lot. The fact that he was gone simply meant he was coming back.

Coming back and doing what…?

It was no surprise to Angelina that Bream was a certified psycho-fruitcake-nut. He’d made that clear from the start. Just what kind of loony was something else. Lots of people were daft, deranged, totally out of whack. Angelina knew she was minus a screw or too herself. But this mother, Mr. fucking Bream, drew lines on her very private parts, and that wasn’t right at all…

She heard him, then, stomping around somewhere to her left. She couldn’t turn her head to see exactly where. Maybe in the bathroom, she thought. He couldn’t be anywhere else. The bathroom or the luggage closet near the front door. And there was scarcely any room in there…

“Cluck! Clucka-Cluck-Cluuuuck!”

Suddenly he was back. Angelina nearly wrenched her neck to see. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the sour taste of Tom Yum soup was crawling up the back of her throat.

Mr. Bream was naked.

Bare-assed, stripped down, nude, crude, down to his birthday suit.

“Clucka-Clucka-Claaaaawk!” said Mr. Bream. He strutted past the bed, strut-strut-strut, then shuffle-shuffle-shuffle. His head bobbed forward, forward and back, bobble-bobble-bobble like a dolly on the dash. He held his fists firmly against his chest and his arms went flap-flap-flap. And, to complete this daffy, crackbrain, freaked-out parade, Bream had stretched a red rubber glove atop his head, the fingers bobbing in a barnyard salute.

“Clucka-Clucka-Squaaaaawk!” said Mr. Bream, waving his arms about.

“Thighs, thighs, hefty lovely thighs,” he sang, strutting back and forth before Angelina’s bed. Go for a firm and juicy thigh…

“The breast, the breast, the breast is

best is the best is the tastiest, very very

best of the rest…

“Wings, wings, precious little wings, take a bit take

a bite, a crusty wing is just right…”

Mr. Bream’s eyes got big as dinner plates. He giggled, snorted and snuffed. A ropy yellow strand crawled slowly down the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, and the rubber fingers waggled back and forth.

“Try a drumstick if you will, a drumstick’s mighty fine, one for you because there’s two, and the other one’s mine…”

Bream stared at Angelina a moment, stared in wonder, as if he’d never seen her before. Then he turned away– Shuffle-Shuffle-Shuffle. Strut-Strut-Strut. Paused for a moment, stopped, as if the very heavens had opened up and struck him with a fun idea. He turned, gave Angelina a goofy grin. Marched over to the couch, reached under the cushions. Drew out a pair of the biggest wicked-looking butcher knives Angelina had ever seen.

“Cluck-Cluck-Cluuuuck!” said Bream.

Angelina drew a breath. Just looking at those gleaming blades told her they were sharpened to a razor edge, deadly as a Samurai sword.

Angelina gave him the best she had, a voice designed to set the ordinary mugger thinking twice. “Don’t even think about it,” she told him. “Get the hell away from me. Now!”

“Cluuuuuuucka-Clucka-Clooo!”

Bream came at her, swinging the gleaming knives above his head, brought them down in a blur. They struck the bed, tore through the mattress the instant Angelina swept her legs aside. Bream shouted in a rage, raised the blades and came at her once again.

That’s it, thought Angelina, don’t push it, babe…

Before the knives struck her, she wrenched her hands free, reached up and grabbed Bream’s wrists, slammed her feet into his chest and sent him sprawling off the bed.

Bream got to his feet, stared at Angelina.

“You sicko freak.” Angelina shook her head and laughed. “You never learn how to tie a woman up? That is frigging pathetic, pal. It’s–”

Bream’s hand moved in blur of motion. One knife struck the bedstead behind her, buried up to the hilt.

Angelina drew it out and tossed it across the room.

“Fine. Now it’s my turn…”

Bream growled and came at her, his other knife held out before him like a lance. Angelina leaped aside, picked up the bedside table and tossed it at Bream. Bream saw it coming and stumbled aside. Instead of going after Angelina, he jumped on the bed and jerked his other knife free. On the floor again, he stalked Angelina, coming at her slowly now.

“Good thinking,” said Angelina. “You’re crazy, but not entirely dumb.”

She could see what he was doing, herding her to the far side of the room, trying to pin her against the wall. She quickly moved to the right. Bream moved right along with her.

“Thighs, thighs, drumsticks and breasts,” he sang, cut ‘em up, slice ‘em up, cook up a mess…”

“I don’t think so, not today, asshole.” Bream was getting closer. Angelina kept moving to her right, then suddenly shifted to her left. Bream stomped after her, stopped, waited to see just what she’d do next.

Angelina was waiting for that. She bent low, picked up the shawl she’d tossed at Bream moments after they’d entered the room, and circled around the couch.

Bream tossed a blade right at her. It whistled and quivered in the wall.

“Now you’ve just got one again,” said Angelina. “How’s that grab you, Mr. Bream?”

Quickly, she straightened the shawl, held it by two corners, shook it, the way you snap a towel. She glanced up to check on Bream. He was crouching low, coming around the couch. Now why the hell was he doing that?

Angelina ran her hands over the edge of the shawl, found what she was looking for, drew out a pair of sagging lengths of shiny metal. Hundreds of segmented links held the instrument together. Angelina held them steady, then cracked the pair like whips. They quivered, sang, and sprang up stiff like proud chrome erections.

She heard him, tensed. Cursed herself for taking her attention away for even a moment. The blade came at her, hummed past her cheek, and clattered to the floor. Angelina moved, heading back toward the bed. Another blade came at her, and another after that. An axe buried itself in the wall.

An axe! The son of a bitch has got an arsenal stashed in that couch!

Angelina leaped over the bed, rolled over twice, came to her feet. Something with a very medieval look thunked into the floor. Angelina ducked a wave of knives, felt a keen blade slice half an inch from her heel. She wrenched in pain, shook the hurt away, felt her face redden with the sudden rage that shook her body. The bastard had cut her, touched her with one his nasty blades…!

She stalked toward the couch, going straight at it, not an inch to either side. Bream stood up, an axe held loosely in each hand. He frowned, looked at the shiny links of metal held at Angelina’s sides. She could tell his fevered mind was trying hard to work this problem out. New things often took a little time. He knew about steaks, whiskey, Subarus, lettuce and umbrellas, the thousands of things people around him thought about every day. But the shiny things were new, and he didn’t like that at all. Finally, he did what he knew how to do. He blinked, once, grinned at Angelina and raised a heavy axe.

“Thighs, thighs, pretty pink thighs,” he babbled, “round, sound, lovely–”

“Huh-uh,” said Angelina. “No more. Over. Finished. All done.”

She raised the two shiny links, brought them down upon him one after another. Again, again, again. On and on, without a pause, without a rest. Bream had only an instant to cry out, before the shock took him under. Angelina flailed, cut, thrashed, slashed, cleaved, sliced and diced.

She had no idea how long this bloody scourge went on, only that finally it was done, for there was nothing down there left to do.

In the bathroom, she wiped the whips clean, and thrust them back in the shawl. She found her purse and combed her hair. A tiny spot of Bream’s blood had stained her dress. She dabbed a wet cloth at that, turned and walked out of the room, without looking back…

#

“Well, Mrs. Howton, I hope everything was to your liking. It is most important to us that our clients are pleased.”

“Thank you, Mr. Creel.” She smiled, touched her hair, reached down and absently straightened the shawl across her arm. “Everything was fine. He was exactly what I was looking for.”

“I’m so pleased to hear it, Mrs. Howton. Do let us hear from you again.” He opened the door of the limo. “I think the evening’s cooling off. We’ll drive you back to your car. It won’t take a minute.”

“Thank you,” she said, and placed one foot inside the car. Odd, she thought, that very nice burgundy smell is missing. Instead, there’s something rather awful in here–

They were on her, then, one lean and lanky, with dead yellow teeth, skin pale as winter, eyes like the bottom of a lake. The other so fat and loathsome she shuddered and turned away. They smelled like sweat, wet earth, bad whiskey and tobacco, long since rotted and now a foul part of their souls. She screamed, then, and in an instant their hands were all over her, grabbing, probing, grunting as they found some new and lovely prize.

“Purty, purty,” the fat one said, “purty as can be…”

#

“Those two in the car,” said Mr. Creel, “are you certain they’ll do, sir? I have to tell you, they’re a rather nasty pair.”

Mr. Howard Cross Benton stood out of shadow. He looked at the limo and smiled. “They’ll do nicely, Mr. Creel. Just what we’re looking for.”

“Well then, fine. I’m pleased, Mr. Benton. It’ll just be a while…”