The Road to Mercedes Ch. 04

As Deidra shrank into herself, trying to process the horrific repast she'd just been made to drink, Turd Fingers, now sated and newly concerned with covering up his crime, shimmied Phoebe's underpants and ripped shorts back up over her hips. He'd knifed her shorts at the backside but they were so small they still fit crisply, and when he ordered her to sit back down at the couch and she did so, she looked like nothing had happened to her except she was flush and she'd picked up a tendency to fuss at her raw backside. Deidra, too, didn't look too much worse for wear once he'd sat her on the sofa, though she too was fussing with herself, rubbing her tapered stomach sadly through her blouse to try and settle the foul sperm that had slid down into her.

Just then came the sound of tumblers and Krone passed through the sturdy office door, twirling his keys in his hand.

"Got the dustup at the food court worked out, finally. Punks." He surveyed the scene. "Looks like everything's about the same here. Good."

Krone's assessment was not quite accurate. Yes, Turd Fingers'd returned Phoebe and Deidra to the sofa on which he'd found them, and yes, they both seemed fully dressed. But Phoebe was red-faced and frowning, and kept shifting on her seat, doubtless suffering some belated ache from the callous reaming Turd Fingers'd just finished pounding into her. Deidra still massaged her tense midriff like an expectant mom. Both girls' cheeks were wet with tears, and both shook as nervously as if they'd split a pot of coffee. Turd Fingers also glanced down and saw that his fly was open. He considered sneakily zipping it, but thought better.

"Yup," he assured. "Nothing to see here."

"That's not true!" Deidra's objection was so strenuous and sudden Turd Fingers and Krone started. "He did awful things to us! Perverted things so awful I'll never forget them!"

"Like what?" chuckled Krone.

"He bent Phoebe over and put his thing in her! In her . . ." Deidra paused, searching for the most polite word. "Her anus hole. He made me swallow it! He threatened us both with a knife!" She pointed at the already scabbing knife-point prick on her cheek. "He cut me!"

Krone squinted at her.

"You had that before."

"I did not! It's all true! Isn't that right, Pheebs?"

Phoebe, sullen and brooding, stared at her own lap and shrugged.

"Anything to this, Mr. I Didn't?"

Following Phoebe's lead, Turd Fingers shrugged as well.

"First I'm hearing of it," he said dismissively.

"See that, girls? He says he didn't do it." Krone gestured toward the open door. "Tell you what, you check out. You're free to go."

"Don't mind if I do." Hiding his relief, Turd Fingers followed Krone's invitation and made calmly for the exit.

"What about me and Phoebe?"

"'Fraid I'm gonna have to hold you two over. Got a cop coming who's got some questions about the shoplifting, and now there's the matter of lying to a security official. Turns out that's a misdemeanor."

"I can't believe it!" Deidra rolled her eyes in incredulity.

"Ladies," offered Turd Fingers as a parting gift. He mimed a tip of the imaginary hat to them. He waited until he was well on the other side of the door and it had shut behind him before letting the self-satisfied, gratified laugh of a true villain.

The Pallisades at Center Court were decked out, Turd Fingers wasn't surprised to find. After all, sexy Ms. Sweet had come across as a young woman of some means. The building was ringed in century-old stone, polished custom-carved bronze handles on the ivory doors, glazed oval window revealing the marble lobby as though through a crystal lens.

All this bling didn't stop Turd Fingers from following a tenant with a key inside just as he'd do to rob a section 8 flat.

"Can I help you?" the gray and gaunt but well-dressed man at the front desk asked.

"Yeah, you got a Mercedes Sweet living here? I've got something of hers I wanna give back."

"Sweet. Yeah, number twelve." He frowned. "Can't just let anybody up there, though. What you have of hers?"

Somehow, Turd Fingers had managed not to anticipate this question.

"It's a pair of her panties." Well, that did it. He'd get kicked out for sure.

"Uh-huh. What kind?"

This took Turd Fingers aback.

"Huh?"

"What kind? What'd they look like?"

"Uh, you ever hear of a 'cheekini'?"

"Like regular panties but lower down the hip, sure. Slutty stuff, nice and slutty."

"It's one of those, nude, got a bow and a bell on the front."

The deskman snapped his finger. "I know the ones. Seen 'em when I go snooping around the laundry room sometimes. How'd you get 'em?"

"Well." Turd Fingers cleared his throat. "You know."

"Figures. How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I get mail from A.A.R.P. Why?"

"I asked her if she wanted to come out to the gun range with me once, kinda a date. She said I was too old for her, and I'm only thirty. Now here you are, literally getting into her panties." Figuring he'd best not embellish the lie, Turd Fingers said nothing. The doorman'd gone off on his own rant, anyway. "Stuck up about it, too. She put her finger down her throat," he imitated, "and said, 'barf.' Shoulda known better. She's always bitching on her cell, giving me stink-eye just for checkin' her out, always actin' like she smells something. She's a cocktease if you ask me. Tease and a snob."

"Yeah." Turd Fingers rolled his fingers on his other arm without thinking. "She's got her problems, probably. I don't really know her that well."

"Just a wham-bam situation, huh? I get it. You want my advice? Keep it that way."

"Will do. But can I go up?"

"Your story checks out. Sure, bud. Go on up."

He climbed the stairs to twelve, last door on the right, and rapped at it.

"Porsche? That you?"

Turd Fingers rapped again.

"Porsche? No. I'm from downstairs. I've got something important that belongs to you."

"What is it? I'm supposed to be meeting someone in a few minutes. I'm late getting ready."

"It won't take any time at all, Miss Sweet. It's very important."

After a beat the lock clicked and Mercedes opened the door with a clatter of bracelets. Distracted putting in an earring, she scarcely looked at him.

No chain. Big mistake.

"It's Ms. Sweet, not Miss, you troglodyte. What is this, the twenties?"

"Sorry, Ms. Sweet."

She finally deigned to look at him. Some of the color went out of her.

"You're . . . You're that leg-humper from the mall!"

"I came to return your underpants."

"But I threw them away. I don't need them." She flashed in realization. "Right. That idiot security guard told you where I live." She shivered. "Oh, boy, you had that weird snatch my pan . . . You need to get out of here. Go away." She swung the door to shut it.

Turd Fingers parked the door open with the heel of his hand. Mercedes glared him down, mouth slack and wide-eyed, struck dumb with shock and anger.

"I came to return your underpants." Turd Fingers pulled the nude cheekinis out of his raincoat pocket. He dangled them at her. She recoiled.

"Get your hand off this door."

He gave the panties a couple wags, like a southern belle on a float.

"Just take them."

"No. Go away. You are so, so creeping me out right now." Mercedes gave the door another push, but it was futile.

"Come on. Just take them and I'll go away."

"Okay, that's it." Mercedes fumbled her cell phone out of her purse and started dialing. "Security's gonna toss you out on your shrunk old nut, you pervert."

As Mercedes dialed, Turd Fingers openly eye-fucked her. Her hair was feathered out from her face and tousled out around her shoulders. The lapels of her cream-white coat dress scooped deep into her modest but shapely cleavage. The crests of her coconuts formed points in the summer leather. Just in the shadow of her chest, Turd Fingers could make out the clasp of a matching bra, sheer and lacy. The dress's hem came up to the middle of Mercedes' thigh, where it gave to nude stockings. The dress was held on her with just a single button, done at the left side of her waist. It would come off without effort. Her face shimmered with meticulously applied makeup. He saw now the bracelets he'd heard before, six of them on her right wrist. They were pink, nails were painted to match. Her dangling earrings sparkled. He smelled her perfume, arresting but not overpowering. Her pumps, black, set off the dress nicely. The leather crackled as she shifted on her heels, waiting for an answer.

"You look hot. What are you all dressed up for?"

Mercedes turned, shook her head, and held up her hand.

"Don't talk to me."

"Going out to eat? Got a nice date?"

The dressed-up doll bent gracefully into the phone.

"Yes? Hello? Yes, this is Mercedes Sweet in number twelve. I've got a real problem and I need sec . . ." She listened. "Yes. Mercedes. Hi, Hannibal."

She listened.

"I'm sorry I stuck my finger down my throat and said, 'barf.'"

She listened.

"I should have left it at let's just be friends. I apologize. Thing is, I've got a real problem up here, there's this," she glanced at Turd Fingers with a shiver, "there's this stranger here, I don't know how he got past the desk, but he's harassing me. I need security right away."

She listened. She sighed with relief.

"Thank you, yes. Just as soon as they can." As she thumbed the cell phone off Turd Fingers dropped his hand from the door.

"Listen, I get it, no need to get security involved." He held up the panties one last time. "You don't have to take them. I'll go. You sure you don't want them?"

"Fuck off and die, you fat, withered faggot."

She slammed the door hard enough to tremble his nose hairs and scraggly whiskers. Monster that he was, the girl's insulting outburst put hurt in him. Once on a time he'd not been so fat and withered.

"What in the hell was that?" cried Hannibal. He was coming up the stairs with some kind of club in his hand.

"You were right about that Mercedes chick. I just tried to give her those cheekinis back, she came at me with a frying pan and slammed the door in my face. I thought she was gonna kill me."

"We'll get to the bottom of her. Miss Sweet?"

"What? Is this security?" said Mercedes from behind the door. "It's okay, he left."

The doorman sheathed his club. He went at Mercedes' lock with the keys on his belt. "Miss Sweet? We need to sort some things out."

"What are you doing? You're not unl . . ."

The doorman burst into Mercedes' apartment. Turd Fingers, figuring why the hell not, followed after him. Stepping up the landing to intercept them, Mercedes staggered back and hugged herself.

"What are you doing? You can't come in here."

"Miss Small, we've got complaints you're acting violently. You need to settle down and tell me what's going on."

"Goddammit, you can't let him in here. That guy's stalking me."

"Don't raise your voice, Miss Small."

"You can't come in here. This is my apartment. You're not even security. Where's security? Did you even call them?"

The doorman drew the club.

"I double as front-line security. I'm warning you, the management has equipped me with a stun rod and authorized me to use it if needed."

"Wait a minute." Mercedes furrowed her brow. "You two clowns are working together. Aren't you?"

The doorman stumbled toward her. She got as far as raising her hands and protesting, "What are you doing," before spasming epileptically where she stood. Her eyes rolled up in her head, which made her pupils seem suspended in the air when she first began crumpling to the carpet. Her fleeing consciousness slowed her fall just enough to keep her from hurting herself when she landed.

Mercedes' shiny, conditioned, hair-sprayed mane fanned out around her lolling head. The flaps of the girl's cream dress flipped open under the button at her waist, frankly exposing the darker thighbands of her stockings and her translucent intimates, the dainty stripe of her well-trimmed pubis detectable as a shadow through their lacy fabric.

Another twitch went through her. Her legs wobbled. She settled. Out.