Monster Media 1994 #2/Monster Media No. 2 (Monster Media)(1994).ISO/magazine/rubyv33.zip/RUBY33-4

Text File | 1994-05-04 | 6KB | 103 lines

Copyright (c) 1994

                          PICKUP LINE
                         By Michael Hahn

     Jefferson Davis was going out tonight. And, as usual, that
meant he was in front of the mirror, practicing his pickup lines.
     "Hi, I'm Jeff," he drawled to his reflection. "That's an
awfully nice sweater." Jeff didn't have a lot of luck with his
lines. He didn't have a lot of luck picking up women in bars,
period.
     Jeff Davis was ugly before the accident. His eyebrows met
above the bridge of his twice-broken nose. It wasn't much of a nose
before the breaks, either. His ears were visibly uneven, and the
left one stuck out at a ninety-degree angle. He was short, round
in the middle, and broad in the seat.
     The car crash left him with one leg shorter than the other
and a livid scar across his forehead. The scar was long, deep, and
ran parallel to his single eyebrow. Co-workers suggested (though
not to his face) he lacked only the neck-bolts to be one of Doctor
Frankenstein's creations.
     He stopped practicing before the mirror, and pulled on his
best suit. It wasn't a very good suit. It certainly didn't look
very good on him. He pulled on an old trenchcoat, made a final
check of his appearance in the hall mirror, and limped out to the
car.
     His car wasn't much to look at, either. He'd picked up an old
sedan at an auction. It had previously served as a taxicab; he
hadn't bothered to remove the plexiglass partition behind the
driver's seat. He'd tinkered with the car until it ran like a Swiss
watch--it looked a lot like its owner, though.
     He drove to Widget's, the bar down the street from the
semiconductor plant. He parked the car within sight of the front
door and limped across the street and into the bar. The bouncer at
the door grimaced, but waved him in.
     Jeff cruised the bar, moving from one woman to the next. He
mumbled his pickup lines; the rejections ranged from a
politely-turned head to a stinging slap. He persisted, spending
the next four hours plying one single woman after another with
offered drinks and banal conversation.
     He gave up half an hour before closing time, retrieved his
trenchcoat, and shuffled back to his car. He sat in the car, in
the dark, and smoked a cigarette. He watched the crowd flow out of
the bar, separate, and trickle away in different directions.
     He rolled down the window, grabbed the dome with the magnetic
base from the passenger seat. He flipped the toggle on the side,
lifted it out the window, and pushed it toward the middle of the
car's roof. He started the car.
     One of the crowd drifted away from the rest. She was alone,
dressed in a too-short, too-thin dress for a November evening. She
clutched her leather coat around her, walked in the direction of
the bus stop two blocks away.
     Jeff slid out of his parking place, snapped on the lights.
He slowly moved up beside the woman, carefully timing his approach.
As she turned the corner away from casual eyes, he pulled up
alongside her. She glanced up, visible relief in her eyes. She
raised a hand, moved toward the rear door of the car.
     Jeff stopped, and the woman slid into the back seat.
"Five-eighteen Fulton, please," she said, in a not-unpleasant
voice. Jeff grunted, pulled away from the curb.
     The woman closed her eyes, not noticing the lack of a meter.
Jeff smiled a guarded half-smile, turned toward the outskirts of
the city. The woman was roused by the turn, and Jeff flipped the
bypass switch on the dash.
     Maybe she realized what was happening, maybe not. She pounded
on the plexiglass partition, screaming. She tugged futilely on the
door handles, pounded at the glass. Her cries became weaker, and
finally she slumped, overcome by the carbon monoxide shunted into
the back seat from the sedan's exhaust.
     Jeff drove on toward the quarry, whistling softly to himself.
He was good with his hands; he'd made the space behind the
partition airtight, rigged the back doors so they could only be
opened from the outside, replaced the glass with unbreakable
plexiglass, and installed the switching system that vented the
exhaust into his trap. He added special touches, like the extra
soundproofing and the phony grille in the partition.
     On the northern end of the quarry was a thick stand of trees;
Jeff pulled into the trees, killed the engine. He got out, pulled
the phony "TAXI" sign off the roof of the car. He opened both the
rear doors, stepped back, and leaned against a tree for another
cigarette.
     After a few minutes, he pulled the body from the back seat.
He pulled off the leather coat, laid it on the ground, and spread
the dead woman out on the makeshift bed. He pulled off the dead
woman's minidress, unhooked the wire-and-lace bra, held her dead
breasts in his hands. He kneaded the cooling flesh, then pulled
off the pantyhose and panties. He spread her legs, and unzipped
his own pants.
     When he was finished, he gathered the clothing together,
rolled the dead woman in her own coat, and dragged the bundle to
the edge of the abandoned quarry. He retrieved a coil of rope from
the trunk of the car, and neatly packaged the clothing, the body,
and a few rocks, for ballast. The water was deepest here at the
north end of the pit, and cold this time of year. He pushed the
body over the edge, watched it fall, heard it splash. The water
was deep, and far from the top of the pit. None of the bodies would
be found soon, if ever.
     Jefferson Davis returned to his car, started the engine, and
drove home. He hung up the trenchcoat, took off his best suit, and
climbed into bed.
     Two weekends later, Jeff wore his second-best suit and went
to Bert's Place, on the east side of the city.
                               END