Wicked – Chapter 6
By Christopher W. Blaine
DISCLAIMER: All of the characters and events portrayed in this work of fan fiction are ©2004 by DC Comics Inc. and are used without permission for fan-related entertainment purposes only. This original work of fiction is ©2004 by Christopher W. Blaine.
Wicked finished his business with the girl, leaving her to contemplate what further horrors awaited her, and left his apartment. He took no special precautions because he knew that the heavy chains the bound her in the tub of warm water would keep her from escaping. It was a tried and true method. Certainly she was comfortable now, but as the water cooled, she would be more preoccupied with keeping warm than getting away.
The scented water would also help remove the smell of fear from her. He had expected more spirit, more of a fight from the daughter of a professional athlete, but that was not to be. She had put up token resistance each time, but then her quaking body finally gave in to his demands and he controlled her.
But he was growing bored with her, and he had half a mind to go ahead and just kill her, but then he knew he would deviate from his pattern and that would take away the dread his work brought to the families. They always knew there would be two and one of them would die. If he just started killing the children, then it could spell trouble.
So, whistling a happy tune, he trotted down the stairs into the lobby of the building. One of the tenants, a woman a few years older than him, gave him a smile, but he was otherwise unmolested as he left the building. This was a part of town where people had no friends and did not try to make them. Not like it was in Metropolis, he reminded himself, thinking back several years.
He had become so scared that someone had seen what he had done that he had run off to the Marines. Perhaps it had been a good move because it had taught him the value of hiding in plain sight. He had been a killer among those trained to kill, so his fascination with weapons and other aspects of the arts of death went unnoticed. In fact, his officers had worked hard to try and get him to reenlist, but he had explained that he had family business to attend to.
Metropolis had not been where he wanted to return to. He no longer got along with his family, though they had never done anything particular to him. In fact, he had been granted a fairly normal childhood. There was no particular reason for what he did and he no longer tried to analyze it. He simply did it because he wanted to.
Outside he began his brisk walk that would get his blood pumping and prepare him for the hunt. He desired a boy now and his mind was filled with images of perversion and debauchery. That, as well, was all right with him. In fact, the thoughts helped him focus on what he needed to do. Kidnapping children in broad daylight, even with the lackluster efforts of the GCPD to prevent them, was not very easy. There were always a few adults that decided to do the right thing, or kept an eye on the neighborhood kids and that was the real problem.
The cops, if he were caught, might rough him up, but all they would really do is put him in a cage. Piss off the local men on the block and they would kill you!
And it wasn't just the civilians and the cops he had to worry about. Many of the streets he roamed were part of the territory of a local gang under the control of some tough with an Italian name. He spied several of members of the gang standing on a street corner, distributing drugs as cars came up. It seemed to be a profitable day because none of them gave him more than a cursory glance as he walked by.
That behind him he continued walking, heading outside the immediate area to where he kept one of four vans he had stolen. A buddy in the Marines had taught him how to boost a car in less than fifteen seconds and that, he admitted, was probably the most useful thing he learned in the military.
Twenty minutes later he was in the van, an older model with a large cargo area and sufficiently rusted out that cops on patrol would not even look in its direction in this part of the city. Again, hiding in plain sight. If he had stolen a fancier vehicle, he would have been out of place and immediately would have garnered unwanted attention. To him, the van was his camouflage gear and he was merely moving deeper into the woods to hunt his quarry.
He kept the radio off; there was nothing to listen to except very bad music, much of it sung by persons of a different ethnic origin than him and he had no appreciation for it. He wasn't a racist he often told himself; he'd raped boys and girls of all creeds and colors. Even got a hold of a little gay boy who tried to hustle him.
That body still had not been found.
He turned a corner and considered getting some coffee from a small deli he liked to frequent since moving to Gotham. It helped to stop in there because it made it look like he was part of this neighborhood instead of the one he actually lived in. And, to be honest, he liked the coffee.
Parking in his normal spot and stopping long enough to put fifty cents in the parking meter, he made his way into the shop. The girl behind the counter was busy chatting up with a guy with too many pimples and he ignored her. She was a little old for his tastes, but flat-chested enough that he could pretend. However, she was a valuable part of his cover. She was someone who "knew" him from the deli and would always say he was friendly, polite and normal. She never even fathomed the ideas he had about foreign objects and her various orifices.
He moved back towards the coffee pots set up next to some stale doughnuts and looked for the Styrofoam cups. As he reached for the decanter, there was a comotion two aisles over, just out of his view. He emptied his hands and walked slowly to the scene of chaos to see the deli owner, an older man of Arabic descent, manhandling a young boy with dark skin and an afro that was in desperate need of cutting. "Thief! Little thief! Do you know what we do to thieves in my country?"
"Yo, blood, this ain't no Saudi damn Arabia! Let go of my arm," the boy protested. He pulled hard, but he was thin and small, while his captor was a large man with a thick mustache and thick forearms. "I said let go!"
Wicked took a step forward, a smile forming on his lips. "Is there a problem here?" he asked.
The owner looked up. "No problem, no problem! Just a little thief, stealing from me! From me!" He jerked the boy and illicited a cry of pain. Wicked felt a shiver run down his spine and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself down. The owner called out to the waif of a girl at the counter. "You, call the police and quit whoring with that boy!"
"Hold on," Wicked said, holding up his hands. "What did he steal?"
The owner opened his free hand and showed a pack of gum. Wicked laughed. "Look, I'll pay for it. Let's not get the police involved. I'm sure the kid is sorry."
"Screw you, white boy," the kid responded with as much attitude as he could summon. He could not have been more than eleven, but his eyes told the story of a much older man. In an instant, Wicked understood the boy better than he understood himself.
Raised in the poorer section of Gotham City, he probably had seen violence and despair his whole life. His improper use of English and the over abundant slang, showed that he didn't care about school and most likely, neither did his parents if he had any. Most of the young boys in this section of town had only mothers.
Their fathers were out making more babies.
Of course he could have been wrong and the kid was just a smart-ass. "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, kid," Wicked told him.
"He should be turned over to the police!" the owner argued. "Thieves should be punished!"
"I agree, but the kid just wanted some gum. Is that really so bad, especially if I'm willing to pay for it?" Wicked reached into his front pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Come on..."
The owner thought about it and Wicked watched the thoughts pass through his brain by the look on his face. He wanted to turn the kid in and Wicked could not blame him. The thieves would pick him to death of he did not do something, but this was one time he could afford to be lenient. After all, Wicked was a good customer who seemed to be trying to do a good thing.
Finally, he let the struggling boy go. Instead of running, the boy allowed himself a moment to give a knowing smile. Wicked admired his spunk, but also liked the way he stood, erect and sure. He would be one who would be more than horrified by the breaking. He would burn inwardly with shame.
The boy started to turn to leave when Wicked shook his head. "Hold on, son, I want to talk to you," he said as he handed over the twenty to the owner. The other man grumbled something in his native tongue and then went to get Wicked his change.
Alone, Wicked began the process of trying to earn enough of the boy's trust to get him into the van. Once the lad crossed that border, entered Wicked's web, there would be no escape. By the time his parent(s) discovered he was missing, the boy would have been given his first taste of what could be the end of his life.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Jefferson...Jefferson Pierce; what about it, dude?" the boy asked, defiance in his eyes. He was angry and Wicked could not wait until he got the opportunity to fill those eyes with sweet sexual pain. "Don't expect me to kiss your white ass 'cause you helped a brother out!"
"No, not my ass," Wicked whispered. He was about to say something else when an older woman stormed into the shop. She looked around, spied the boy and Wicked felt his hopes dashed instantly.
"Jefferson Pierce! What is going on in here?" she demanded, stomping towards the boy. Immediately, Jefferson's shoulders slumped in defeat. All of the defiance was gone. The older woman stopped in front of his and lifted his chin so he could see the anger in her face. "Answer me, young man!"
"Nothing, grandma," the boy said in a polite voice.
"Don't you be telling me 'nothing', young man! I sent you in here to get some milk and I find you in here talking to this man! What is going on?"
"He is a thief! A thief! He tried to steal my gum!" the owner ranted as he walked back into the aisle. "But this nice man agreed to pay for his theft!"
The old woman looked at Wicked and he felt his stomach churn. Her face was wrinkled and sagging, not at all firm and fresh like the faces he enjoyed. "Is that true, sir?" she asked.
Wicked swallowed. "Yes, I didn't think a pack of gum was worth the trouble the boy would get into it."
She opened her purse and began to rummage through it. "We don't take no charity, but I am thankful. You have a good heart," she said as she produced a handful of change.
Wicked tried to beg off, but she would have none of it. He saw where the boy got his fiery determination and felt the sadder for his loss. His night was ruined, bad karma in the air. There would be no new meat to tenderize this night. Reluctantly, he accepted the handful of coins and watched as the old woman pulled the boy out.
"You should not get involved," the store owner said, wiping his hands on his apron. "Next time, let the police handle it. That is why we pay taxes, yes?"
Wicked nodded and then moved off to get his coffee. He could not believe how close he had been! He cursed silently as he poured pack after pack of sugar into his coffee. He would have kept at it except he knew it was time to leave. He did not want to spend too much time in any one place; it would make him harder to track.
He moved to the counter where the girl looked bored and dazed. He reasoned he could probably smack her across the face and it would take a week for her brain to register. That was one of the things that truly made her unappealing, unworthy of any true pursuit. He liked intelligence in his prey, loved the thrill of watching as they tried to come up with a way to save their lives.
It was almost spiritual to strangle some kid and watch the intellect and potential simply fade from their gaze.
He checked his watch as he stepped out into the night and figured it was time to call it a night. He could stay out longer and troll for fish, as he called it, but there was substantial risk involved. He had been sighted with a child, offering aid to a child. A good detective might make something of that, not that there were any left in Gotham City. It had been one of the reasons for coming here, but he could never be too careful. You never knew when the GCPD might actually hire a cop worth a crap!
He was almost to his van when he bumped into someone walking down the sidewalk. He almost spilled his coffee and the anger swelled inside of him. He looked up to see a face that was youthful, beautiful in a weird way. It wasn't that there was anything mysterious about her, it was more that her eyes reflected an age far beyond what her good looks belied. "Sorry," she said with a toss of dark locks.
"No problem," he replied, giving her a quick once over. She was built, too, and he felt the unnatural stirrings within him. He very rarely had desires for what he considered mature women, but he was willing to make an exception in this case.
She turned to walk away and he glanced at her posterior. Very, very firm. "Hey," he called out, "what's your hurry, baby?"
She stopped and slowly turned back around, her face not one of shock, but more of mild amusement. Suddenly, he felt inadequate, just as he had growing up when the pretty girls had looked at him. All of the other boys got girlfriends, but not him. Nobody ever gave him a note in class, or sat next to him on the bus. They just looked at him like he was an alien. "Are you talking to me, young fella?" she asked.
He swallowed hard and felt his hand starting to shake. He was intimidated and he knew it. "I...I thought..."
"What? You thought that with that smooth line I was going to hop into your arms?" she prodded. "Well?"
He suddenly turned and threw down the coffee, making a sprint to his van. He hopped in it, started it up and roared away, cursing everyone from the woman to God. Then he felt the wetness in his pants and the rank smell of urine.
Dinah shook her head and decided to file the encounter away for later laughter. It wasn't so uncommon for guys to hit on her, even when she wasn't in costume or wig, but they never ran. Normally they tried to dazzle her with descriptions of their anatomies that defied logic, or attempted to sway her with promises of sexual pleasure unheard of since the days of the Roman orgies.
Not today she surmised as she started towards her favorite deli. It had always been here, ever since the forties, just with different owners. Jewish, Irish, Italian and now Arabic. But they always had the best prices on smokes and damn good coffee to boot. She wanted to stock up before she had to change into costume. Her analysis of the Wicked crimes told her that he would strike either here or the Bowery within the next two nights. Ben was supposed to meet her soon while they tried to stake out the area, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Stepping inside the deli, she put on her happy face and ordered up a pack of cigarettes.