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THE DAY AFTER
4. The Supersonic Prison Sex Megamix.
[SONIC, Stephen Zacharus]
So there's this blue guy, right? You might have heard of him. Sonic the Hedgehog? The fastest thing alive? The Blue Blur? The kicker-of-much-robot-ass? Whatever. He's saved the planet more times than anybody can remember. He's so cool, in fact, that he can pound any of Dr. Eggman's evil schemes to steaming shit whenever he wants without breaking a sweat--in his *sleep* even! Everybody thought that this way-past-cool blue guy was invincible.
Yeah. I fucking *wish*.
Anyway, the rumor is that this Sonic dude is the world's hero. Oh, wait--correction. *Was*. Sonic the Hedgehog *was* the world's hero. Now he's locked up in prison because he couldn't keep his dick to himself.
Damn. I'm quite the storyteller this afternoon, aren't I? Hell, I should write an autobiography; it's not like I have anything better to do. I'd probably sell a million copies. People are sick that way--always wanting to get inside the minds of those equally sick bastards who just happen to be unlucky enough to get caught.
What people seem to ignore is that we all make mistakes: even celebrities, interestingly enough. Never mind the fact that life had been only slightly more than demanding for me up to that point. Never mind the fact that I was stoned off my ass. Never mind the fact that the little bitch had probably wanted it to begin with. If she didn't want to leave me the hell alone, what the fuck should she expect? A date to the prom? Sorry, but that's just not my style. Sue me for wanting to take back a little power in my life.
Rape? It was more like... personal sovereignty. If only for a little while.
Fuck, I can hardly even remember what happened.
I do remember framing Knuckles, though. Well, what *else* was I going to do? I needed to save face, and he was in the right place at the wrong time. The bastard practically invited me to do it. Knock him out, exchange clothes, dump him in an alley, battabing: and I *knew* he wouldn't remember shit because of all those freaking hallucinations and the "I don't know what's real anymore!" episodes he was having at the time. Let's face it, the guy was cracked. If it weren't for the off-chance of Amy Rose getting pregnant, I'd probably have gotten away with the whole thing.
But hey--at least that mental-case echidna is out of my life forever. Just before they caught me, you see, Knux had somehow vanished from the face of the planet. Nobody knows what the hell happened to him. Probably jumped off that screwed-up island of his and killed himself. Poor, dumb fuck.
I'm reading the newspaper right now, actually. The front page headline reads: "Mysterious 'vampire murderer' strikes again." Subheadline: "Third body recovered in Station Square alley. Who's next?" Ironically, I can only think about how refreshing it is that the press has stopped printing shit about me.
I read on to find out that the third victim on this serial killer's hitlist is none other than Meaters Prower--Tails' short, fat-ass older cousin. That kid had it coming to him. Stupid, ignorant daydreamer. That's what you get for being naïve.
"You should talk," you're probably thinking right now. You think that I've screwed up for good, don't you? You think that spending a few years in jail is going to ruin my life. You think that I can't find a way to gain back my reputation somehow. You think that I'm as good as dead--*worse* than dead, because nobody will ever respect me again.
Well, fuck you.
I can fix anything. You'll see.
In the meantime, I set the paper down for a moment and recall the other murder victims.
Nack the Weasel. Jewel thief, amateur pimp. I think that Rouge might have done business with him at one time, actually. Stealing stuff for him, of course (I know damn well what you were thinking).
Manic the Hedgehog. That's right, my own brother. Oh, don't worry, life's better without him--believe me. Come to think of it, we hadn't spoken a word to each other since the world started to idolize me. Yeah, it's been that long. Bastard.
And now Meaters Prower makes for three. All of the murder victims were found in various, isolated areas around Station Square. Each of the bodies bore the same distinguishing marks: thick, deep puncture wounds in the neck and the complete absence of any bodily fluids whatsoever. They looked kinda like beef jerky, actually.
I'm such a charmer, aren't I?
Haw haw haw.
Suffice it to say that the police are completely baffled on this case. Some of the more superstitious citizens of Station Square are adamantly certain that this is the work of a vampire run amuck. I guess they can believe whatever they'd like.
I just think it's kind of funny that each of these three victims happened to be related in one way or another to three of Eggman's most notorious arch nemeses. No big deal. Just a little coincidence, right?
Then again, of course, nobody cares what *I* think anymore.
I snatch up a pair of headphones laying next to me and put them on--plugging them into a small, portable FM radio that Tails had given to me during one of his frequent visits. I don't know what I'd do without that kid; his radio is practically the only thing that keeps me from going insane in this fucking cell.
I'm greeted by a steady, thumping synthesizer as soon as I flip on the little device. A woman speaks breathily in rhythm.
[Erotic... erotic...]
[Put your hands all over my body...]
[Let my mouth go where it wants to...]
What the hell?!!
[My name is Dita.]
[I'll be your MISTRESS TONIGHT.]
[I'll give you love, I'll HIT YOU like a TRUCK.]
[I'll give you love, I'll teach you HOW TO...]
I change the station before she can finish. Madonna sucks anyway.
The next station explodes into a violent guitar riff and a deep, throaty growl. Shit, yeah. My kind of music.
[Hey SQUEALER-- when I HELD her hand.]
[Squealer -- MADE her understand.]
[Squealer -- when I kissed her LIPS.]
[Squealer -- and SUCKed her FINGER tips.]
[Squealer -- she started getting HOT.]
[Squealer -- made it HARD to...]
I change the station. Isn't there any good music on the airwaves these days?
Next station: more heavy metal. Hell yes.
[Won't you come a bit CLOSER,]
[Close enough so I can SMELL you.]
[Got your HANDS BOUND,]
[Your head down, your EYES closed.]
[You LOOK so...]
Damn. Next station.
[I can feel YOUR BODY]
[PRESSED against MY BODY.]
[When you start to POUNDIN',]
[Love to FEEL you thr...]
Um, no. Next station.
[Like a ROCK, ohh like a ROCK...]
Christ, even *Bob Sieger* can be taken the wrong way.
Next station.
[Let's get UNCONSCIOUS honey.]
[Inside, we're all still WET...]
Next station.
[You and me babe ain't nothin' but mammals,]
[So let's DO IT like they DO on the Discovery Channel.]
Next fucking station.
[FEEL me up INSIDE YOU, how you QUIVER and SHAKE...]
I can't believe they even play this shit on the radio.
Next.
[TIE ME UP tie me down.]
[Make me MOAN real loud.]
[TAKE OFF MY CLOTHES.]
[No one has to know.]
[Whisperin'.]
[I wanna FEEL a soft...]
Next.
[Let's GET IT ON...]
Next!
[Colonel Sanders says it best:]
["FINGER-LICKIN' GOOD..."]
ShitdamnMOTHER*FUCKER*!!!
Isn't it bad enough that I'm reminded of my screw-up every time I wake up in this fucking cell? Now I have to hear it on the FUCKING RADIO, TOO?!?!! It's not like sex is all I think about.
Okay, well, I've thinking about it a little more than usual since my...
Oh, fuck it, I've BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MOMENT OF EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN DAY.
I tear off the headphones and chuck the radio across the room; it hits the bed and bounces lightly to a rest on my pillow, unscathed. Just to spite me, too. I fucking hate prison.
I grab my little spiral pad and start scrawling notes into it. I write in it whenever I can't stop thinking about... that. You know, just a jot here or there--stray fragments of whatever I can remember about that night.
It starts out like so:
In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt. More. More. God, I am loving this...
And you know the rest.
To what's already written, I've just added this:
I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done--but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.
I continue. And continue. And continue. I pause to erase the angry tears that are staining my face.
Nobody sees Sonic the Hedghog cry. Not today, not ever.
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To be continued. Reviews are appreciated. Oh, and visit our site: http://tdaproject.tripod.com.
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