The Dying Game

THE DYING GAME

      Jenny Owens wasn’t like other little girls when she was young. Maybe some little boys, but certainly not little girls. While other girls her age were playing with baby dolls and thinking about when their Prince Charming would come along and sweep them off their feet, little Jenny could be found in her back yard with a magnifying glass, happily giggling as she roasted ants under the sun’s scorching rays. Jenny’s foster parents, their brains diluted with alcohol and drugs, never paid much attention to her strange habits, or if they did, they just didn’t care. Which is most likely why she ended up the way that she did.

      By the time she was twelve, Jenny had graduated to larger victims; no dog or cat was safe from being ‘sacrificed’ for her pleasure. And when she turned eighteen and moved into her own house, it wasn’t just sacrifice anymore; her attentions shifted to torture, as well.

      But even that couldn’t satisfy her demented imagination, and it didn’t take long until she began incorporating other things into her warped entertainment.

      A voluptuous blonde with a body no man could resist, it was simply too easy for her to lure her suitors back to her house. She thought of men as Lay's Potato Chips—you couldn’t stop at just one.

      Tonight, however, her cup runneth over.

      In her bedroom, three men, hogtied and shirtless, slowly come to their senses. They begin to squirm on the floor against the ropes that bind their limbs behind them.

      It only took two hours to get them here, separately of course, and to be drugged and tied up securely. And now with all of them awake, Jenny walks into the room and lets them in on the night’s proceedings.

      “Hi, boys,” she says with her little girl voice. She sits down on the edge of her bed, a small pistol in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “How are you feeling?”

      “You crazy bitch!” yells the man in the middle. “What the hell are you doing?”

      Jenny leans back, propping herself up on one elbow. “Now, now. No name-calling. We’re all adults here. Let’s see. You’re Jeff, right?”

      “You’re fuckin’ nuts!” Jeff cries. “When I get these ropes off I’m going to—”

      “What? Kill me?” She stands up and walks over to him, then waves the cigarette in front of his face. “I think these will kill me long before you do.”

      “Why are you doing this?” he asks softly. His anger has suddenly turned to grief as he comes to terms with his situation. But Jenny pays no attention to him. She crushes the cigarette out on his neck while her other two captives watch him writhe in agony. He clenches his teeth and growls to stifle his screams.

      Jenny sits back down on the bed. “Now, the reason I’ve brought you here tonight is to play a little game.”

      “What do you mean, a ‘game’?” the man on the left asks. Jenny’s pretty sure his name is Dave. The other man, Chris, just lays there, watching and keeping to himself.

      Jenny lights another cigarette and casually blows a smoke ring in Dave’s direction. “I’m sure you’ve all watched that reality show Survivor, right? Well, this game is my version of it.”

      The three of them look at each other, then back at Jenny. She waits for a response, and after receiving none after a few seconds, she continues.

      “It’s simple, really. Think of yourselves as gladiators. The three of you will fight to the death, and the last man standing—sorry—breathing, will win.”

      Chris decides to speak up. “And how are we supposed to do that?” he asks sarcastically. “Are you going to untie us?”

      “No. I’m sure you wish it could be that easy, but I’m afraid it’s not.”

      “Then how?” Dave asks.

      Just then, the phone on the nightstand rings. Putting the gun down, she reaches over and answers it.

      “Hello?”

      The men immediately start yelling.

      “Hey! HELP!”

      “THIS BITCH HAS US TIED UP IN HERE!”

      “HELP! HELP US! PLEASE!”

      Jenny looks at them and places a finger over her lips. Then she returns her attention back to her caller.

      “No,” she says. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart…Well, I’m kind of busy right—”

      “HELP! THIS ISN'T A JOKE! THIS IS SERIOUS! SHE'S GOING TO KILL US!”

      As if not even acknowledging their interruption, she continues: “No, that’s alright…I don’t know, about an hour or so…Okay. See ya then. Love you.”

      She hangs up the phone.

      “Sorry. That was my boyfriend. He helps me clean up the house. I’m not the best housekeeper, and sometimes it gets pretty messy in here. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. You asked how you were going to fight to the death. Well, that’s part of the game, you see? Whoever figures it out first usually has a major advantage.”

      Jenny walks over and positions them so that all of their heads are touching as they lay on their sides. Then she sits back down on the bed.

      She watches.

      She waits.

      It takes almost five minutes, but one of them finally figures it out. After a bit of wiggling around to get into a better position, Chris pauses to stare up at Jenny and says, “You’re fucking sick!”

      “I know, I know,” she says with a grin. “But hey, nobody’s perfect.”

      Chris shakes his head in disgust. Then he closes his eyes…

      And takes the first bite.