Predation

         From a mansion, a golden telescope pointed at a woman's house surrounded by ten police cars. A trio of immigrants, her guests who did not know English, were in handcuffs as a group of policemen were reading papers found within those immigrants' belongings. The papers held fine details of the name, age, ethnicity, race, and gender of every local police officer in the town. It also contained precise information about their town patrols, the total number of police cars, and the layout of the police station.
         Then some smoke blurred the scope and she swung it towards a collection of bright lights in the night. There were twelve crosses burning on the front lawns of a dozen Native American homeowners. Firefighters fought the fire that illuminated another ten police cars seating the arrested natives. One gloved policeman was looking at a unique match that was used to start one of the fires.
         "That's all twenty total police cars, including the two private detective cars, as quick as their patrol should be," she calculated without her papers. A mighty golden retriever laid dead with its twisted neck on a carpet near her feet. Her wrist rose from beside a pocket that held a box of those exact matches, until she looked at her silver watch that she bought with money stolen from her employer. The initials of her old homeless coworker, a bank teller, was on the silver back of that family heirloom, long before the old lady committed suicide after being falsely convicted of stealing the money.
         An observant security guard of the mansion and property knocked on the front door. He stood within strong beams of moonlight, which shined on a spraying river and lustrous pebbles that looked like moonlit gems along a riverbank. Near the end of the river was an ivory coast of sleeping sand. She answered the door.
         “Do you want fun with some online women?” whispered the lady to the security guard while counting money into a suitcase.
         “I don’t have any money for female implants nor time to share your prison cell” laughed the security guard until his eyebrows knitted with suspicion. "You look like the sixteen year old girl who killed her kidnapper after five years in his basement. She was found chained and delivering a child between his dead body and a diaper."
         “Anyways, I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” she asked as he turned to admire the full moon in a windless starlit sky.
         “I got human papillomavirus, contracted from having protected sex, which evolved into terminal cancer spreading from my penis. Peeing burns a lot.”
         Alerted by the sound of the closing suitcase, he turned from his astronomy only to cover his own eyes with a hand as the woman, without clothes, placed the filled suitcase at his feet.
         “A coworker always tells me that an unmarried man shouldn’t wastefully complicate life by treating women and men differently because kidnappers do,” said the shrugging guard as she winked.
         “Your coworker, a transwoman, a man who looks like a woman, might not know that men need sex. You can’t fight nature."
         “I don’t need sex. My father divorced my mother and found another woman. I’d never want to be a man of adultery or fornication. You do not know my nature," regurgitated the security guard with a warped face who then left with the suitcase.
         On a corner of a warmly lit ceiling far above her, there were two spiders. The smaller spider was approaching the bigger spider, like a man approaching a woman. The bigger one walked into a corner of the ceiling bounded by webs. The two stood only a centimeter from each other. Suddenly the bigger spider tore off the smaller one’s leg. Jolted by the pain, the smaller one ran but was snared by the webs. The bigger spider ate the smaller one that struggled and squirmed with one leg trying to break through the webs and escape but then twisted, broke, and stopped moving.
         She closed the front door and went back to the observatory. Her ear pressed against a wall of the observatory room as she smiled. Her employer, a thirty-six-year-old army veteran, was on the other side of the wall, among the snores of his wife.
         "Your mom and I are married, my boy."
         "I'm not 'your boy:' I was adopted. I always knew mom was different because she avoids men who flirt and quit her old job when her past boss began to flirt too. We nearly had to sell the mansion when she did that! Whenever I've brought women here, you avoided all the nightly excitement and abandon me like I'm a rapist. If you two are not gay, then why did you respond to a blackmail about publicizing your homosexuality and her being a lesbian?"
         "Even if your mother is gay, we are your parents and deserve res-" There was the sound of vomit spilling on the floor. "I've been feeling nauseous since dinner."
         "My son felt nauseous too, when you were molesting him."
         "What? I never molested my grandson. I'm gay but not a molest- No! Stop! Richard!"
         There was the sound of cracking bone and then of the employer moaning a suffocating cry, followed by a long silence.
         "Now I can teach mom," lightly exploded Richard with the sound of unzipping pants between snores of his mother in the next bedroom.
         "Your dad has quite a telescope . . ." noted the naked eavesdropper who tiptoed into the bedroom and silenced herself at the sight of a wheelchair tilted forward such that the seated man's dead neck was cracked against the floor. His blind eyes were bulging out.
         "I thought I heard a chuckle while he was dying?" questioned the confused son as he looked towards her. "If you hadn't informed me about the molestation, I don't know what would've happened to my son. I couldn't wait for your poison to kill that gay man. "
         "They responded to the blackmail," she slowly said in a low voice while shaking her head and looking at a large bag of money near the wheelchair. "But I really hoped that he wasn't gay for little boys too."
         Richard unbuckled his belt as he looked at her. Huge pregnant roaches crawled about her closed mouth, drank her foul saliva, and laid eggs in her weed-scented deformed throat. The back part of her teeth was stained somewhat black. The inside of her skunky hair smelled like condensed sweat and was riddled with bed bugs. She smelled like feet and had not showered in a month. Her legs, coated with transparent urine, squeezed together to hide swollen genital warts. Feces and wet boogers colored under her nails.
         A fly crawled on her hand. She killed it between her palms, which rubbed its dead body like a poisonous cream. While silently farting, she secretly ate the flattened fly in a breath akin to the stench of rotting flesh. She savored the flavor by keeping it in her mouth for about an hour like abandoned gum and fried rat.
         “You trusted me more than you trusted dad,” she chuckled after her rough liquor-stained feet kicked the son in the groin and stomped on his lowering body, strangling him so that he couldn’t yell. Her sweat and fart smelled like old urine and he tried to vomit twice, pressed against her polluted aura of suffocating burnt cigarettes.
         While he was shocked by her sudden behavior, she took out a sheathed butcher knife hidden in her infested hair and stabbed between his legs. He yelled in extreme pain while peeing blood. He limped without clothes as blood gushed down his inner thighs. He tried to leave the bedroom but she stabbed him again. He shouted under heavy pain and tried holding the dashed bleeding flesh dangling between his legs. Her quiet knife quickly slit his neck. He tried to scream while holding his ripped neck as blood erupted between fingers of his grip.
         “I want to be in your arms tonight,” she sang while stabbing the man repeatedly in the stomach. Then her sharp nails went inside a stab wound and tore open his bloody stomach. He slipped and fell down hard onto a puddle of his own blood, vomit, and intestines where she stabbed his squirming back ten times on the ground under his great convulsions of pain. She picked up his liver, dipped it in his vomit, and bit into it. Her sharp nails gouged out his eye. She laughed through her nose of snotty cocaine with his eyeball in her mouth, while stabbing between the son’s ribs, drinking some of his blood, and licking her unclean fingers. After her musty pungent armpits raised the butcher knife for one final blow, he never moved again.
         The naked woman beamed a toothy grin of white roach guts as slimy chunks of her diarrhea exploded a sprayed stench on the floor and feces, some of which she chewed, hung between her legs. Then her icy cold hands dragged the son's lifeless neck through an opened bathroom door, before checking the corpses' pockets for wallets, packing the family's jewelry and the blackmail money into her airplane luggage, and balancing her dance on the son's dead remains. Snores, the only sound in the dead mansion, ended as his mother laid lifeless in her own vomit of the dinner. While the naked cook dyed her own hair and applied some things to her own face until both looked like the mother's, her head peaked into the vacant dark observatory and found the golden starlit telescope angled directly at her.