Friday, March 27, 2015

The Black-Leather Gloved Hands Mystery Series—story seven

Hello All:
Recall in our last story of the Black-Leather Gloved Hands Mystery series that George had purchased a pair of .38 Magnum revolvers—one for himself and one for his wife, Krystal. The intention was for Krystal to protect herself with the gun, and was instructed to always carry it with her in the event of the mysterious stranger returning for another assault.
But although Krystal obeyed her husband and carried her handgun with her during a midmorning walk through the subdivision, she was abducted by the mysterious stranger and brutally raped in the back of his brown van. And just like last time; the stranger videotaped the disturbing assault, and sent it to George's coworkers via text message.
George was outraged, to say the least.
Have a great weekend. Enjoy another installation of our ongoing mystery series with plenty of drama, violence, sex, and profanity!
The Black-Leather Gloved Hands Mystery Series—story seven
George didn't even remember leaving the office that afternoon. He suddenly found himself in the parking garage while yelling at his wife, Krystal, on the phone.
"So when did this happen?" he asked
Krystal cried while speaking, "It was this morning while I did my walk through the subdivision."
"Why didn't you shoot him?" he asked.
"He grabbed me before I knew what happened. Then he threw me in the back of the van and tied me up."
"Yes, I saw it all on video! Don't remind me!" shouted George. With that, he abruptly ended the call with his wife. George next called his friend, Nick, who—as you know—is the police commissioner.
"Nick!" yelled George into the phone. By now, George was in his car and driving off. "I don't know if you heard the news, but my wife was raped, again!"
Nick was so alarmed. "She was?"
"Yeah! Don't you people even care?"
It was comments like these from his friend that Nick didn't take well. "George, look; I'm a busy man and have all sorts of business and meetings to take care of throughout the day. I am not your wife's 24 hour bodyguard. I'm the police commissioner. Did your wife report it to the police?"
"I assume so." answered George. Then he continued to explain the assault. "I guess the guy made another video and sent it to my coworkers. My boss passed it on to the police. Did you get it? Did you see it?"
Nick sighed over the receiver. "George, again; I am not a detective who has been assigned to a case. I am the police commissioner. Would you like me to give you the number of the people working on this so you can ask them all your questions?"
"Yes, please do!"
In the meantime, Detective Marianne sat before a computer monitor and carefully studied the most recent assault video that was allegedly made by Krystal's assailant. The video had been passed on by George's boss just over a half hour ago. Marianne was one of the detectives who had been assigned to Krystal's case.
She was most interested in a particular moment of the video in which Krystal had been shoved to the floor of the unfinished van which caused the firearm to suddenly appear.
"What's this...?" asked the unidentified suspect in the video. "Is this a gun...? Bitch, were you going to use this on me...? What the fuck is this...? Huh...?"
Marianne found the slap across Krystal's face to be peculiar—not very convincing.
Just then her partner, Detective Bruce, entered the office. "So we have another video, huh?"
"Yes we do." affirmed Detective Marianne. "And just like before, I'm not buying it. She knows her assailant. It's like they rehearsed this."
"Let me see." requested Detective Bruce.
Detective Marianne slid the video timeline back to when Krystal was dragged into the van. "Watch this." she urged.
In the video Krystal was shoved to the floor of the van, and the gun suddenly appeared.
"See what she did with the gun?" asked Detective Marianne.
"Yeah, that was weird." agreed Detective Bruce. "It's like she pulled it from her pocket and then tossed it on the floor beside her."
"She had every opportunity to use that gun. But she didn't." explained Detective Marianne. "And watch when the assailant smacks her."
The unidentified suspect squatted on Krystal’s chest.
"See how careful he was when sitting on her chest?" pointed out Detective Marianne.
"Yeah!" agreed Detective Bruce.
On the video, the mysterious stranger shouted at crying Krystal. "What the fuck is this? Huh?" He slapped her across the face with his black-leather gloved hand.
"And he's not too rough with that slap. See how he's going easy on her?" further pointed Detective Marianne. "It's like they're just playing a game of who's your daddy."
As the video played on, Detective Bruce and Detective Marianne continued to discuss the recent evidence and how it might contribute to their theory.
"So what do we know at this point?" asked Detective Bruce.
"Well, we're getting suspicious videos that look like rehearsed assaults. Today we even caught a mistake and watched the victim toss the gun to the side." summarized Detective Marianne.
"And what about this suspect having all of the husband's coworkers' cell phone numbers?" asked Detective Bruce.
"That could be the wife." answered Detective Marianne. "It could be as simple as going though her husband's contacts list and writing down all the numbers."
"We still don't know where all of these videos are being sent from, do we?" asked Detective Bruce.
"Nope!" answered Detective Marianne. "They come from public access computers, many of them a hundred or more miles away."
"Well that almost sounds like the assailant has people working for him." suggested Detective Bruce.
"Could be..." answered Detective Marianne.
"Has the wife even reported the assault, yet?" asked Detective Bruce.
"Nope!" answered Detective Marianne.
"No police report!" exclaimed Detective Bruce. "So she was beaten up, forced to give the barrel of a loaded gun oral sex, and then brutally sodomized before being thrown out to the streets, naked. And she never contacted the police? It looks like it's time to pay the Mrs. a little visit.
About an hour later, George stood in the kitchen while screaming his head off at crying Krystal. "I mean I can't believe you didn't make a fucking report to the police! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I don't know!" sobbed Krystal return. "I guess I was so shook up and still in shock. Go ahead and call the police. I'll make a report."
"Well it looks like they are already here." said George while gazing out the front window.
Outside, two squad cars with a third unmarked car pulled into the driveway. Two uniformed officers emerged from their squad cars; a pair of plain clothes detectives from the unmarked car.
It wasn't necessary to wait for the doorbell. George limped over to the front door in his ankle brace and opened it. "Come in." invited George.
The two officers entered the home and immediately spoke to Krystal who appeared emotionally distraught. "There's a report of a rape taking place in the area earlier today?" asked one of the officers to Krystal.
"Yes, I'm the victim." Krystal identified herself.
Detective Bruce introduced himself to George at the front door while entering. "Hi, I'm Detective Bruce and this is my partner, Detective Marianne. We've been assigned to this case."
"Well what the hell have you people been doing?" asked George. "My wife was raped a second time by the same guy."
"Well try to relax." urged Detective Bruce. "I understand your frustration and anguish. We need to get to the bottom of some things."
As the police officers prepared to take their report, the two detectives approached Krystal. "Krystal?" greeted Detective Bruce.
"Yes..." she affirmed.
"I'm Detective Bruce and this my partner, Detective Marianne. We just want to ask you a few questions."
"Sure..." agreed Krystal.
"We, unfortunately, saw the video taken by the assailant." began Detective Bruce."What time did this assault take place?"
"This morning..." answered Krystal.
"When?" asked Detective Marianne.
"About mid-morning."
"Do you have more a precise time?" asked Detective Marianne. "We need details."
George swooped in, "Come-on! You make it sound like she's a suspect."
"10:30..." answered Krystal.
"And you know that for sure?" asked Detective Marianne.
"Positive... 'er... the actual assault would have taken place around quarter to eleven."
"How do you know that?" asked Detective Bruce.
"Because I left the house at 10:30." answered Krystal.
"And where did this assault take place?" asked Detective Bruce.
"Down the street from here." answered Krystal.
"Did anyone see—any of your neighbors." asked Detective Bruce.
"No, this actually took place in the phase two section. There was no one around." answered Krystal.
"Well, surely, someone might have been able to see from down the street. Don't you think that might have been possible?" asked Detective Marianne.
Krystal paused for a second before answering. "There is a big mountain of dirt in the middle of phase two. His van was hiding behind the mound of dirt, away from anyone's view."
"I see..." commented Detective Marianne. "And from what I understand, you were thrown out of the van without any clothes on after the assault. Is this correct?"
"Yes..." answered Krystal.
"No keys, no possession or anything." asked Detective Marianne.
"No..." answered Krystal.
"Were you locked out of the house?" asked Detective Marianne.
"No, I left the door unlocked. I was able to walk in."
George was outraged upon hearing this. "Come-on! You did that?"
"Well I'm sorry!" argued Krystal.
Detective Bruce continued with more questioning. "Krystal, there was a gun in the video that apparently belonged to you. I assume that the suspect has it?"
"I guess so..." answered Krystal.
One of the police officers interrupted and spoke to both George and Krystal. "We're going to need the serial number and any licensing or permits with that gun to report it as stolen."
George shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't have that information."
"Well didn't your wife have a permit to conceal and carry?" asked the officer.
"No, I just bought the guns and gave one to my wife." answered George.
"Guns?" asked the police officer. "There's another?"
"Yes, I have one in the inner pocket of my blazer." answered George.
The other officer quickly approached George, and opened his blazer.
"Hey!" shouted George. "Watch it!"
The officer pulled the .38 Magnum revolver from George's inner pocket. Then with an Android smart phone, he proceeded to type the serial number of the revolver into some data base app.
"Sir, this firearm that you are carrying has been reported as stolen."
"George!" exclaimed Krystal. "I warned you!"
The officer reached for his handcuffs while the other one approached. "Sir, you’re under arrest for possession of a stolen firearm. We're going to have to take you down to the station and book you on charges.

To be continued

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Lighthouse at Lighthouse Pointe

Hello All:
In my hometown of Frankfort, Illinois, there stands a decorative lighthouse off Saint Francis Road which marks the entrance to the elegant and pricey subdivision of Lighthouse Pointe. I've warned people that the lighthouse is haunted. After all, every lighthouse has tragic story with some late night haunting to go along with it. Should this not hold true for the one which proudly stands at the entrance of Lighthouse Pointe in Frankfort, Illinois?
"But it's only decorative." insist people who hear my story. "Do you even see a lake or ocean nearby?"
Ah, but according to a recent session with my EchoVox spiritbox app, the lighthouse was actually uprooted from its foundation off Lake Michigan, and transported to its new place in Frankfort. And it does have a tragic story.
The Lighthouse at Lighthouse Pointe
The evening of December 25th, 1936: It was a stormy, cold and foggy night as Captain Chadwick O'Roque of a cargo transport steamboat simply named, the April, maneuvered his way through the turbulent waters of Lake Michigan. He was en route to Chicago and traveling solo which proved to be a night of irksome technical glitches and mishaps. Inside the control room, important gauges acted up throughout much of the voyage. The boat even lost electric power from the steam turbine for some time. At one point Captain O'Roque felt that it was all a sign that he shouldn't have been working that holiday.
"I suppose I should really be home with family." he exclaimed. "Still, this cargo is very important. I just need a miracle to survive this night and actually make it Chicago in one piece."
The waters were icy, choppy and wavy; very difficult to maneuver on a cold and foggy night. It was impossible to see even twenty feet ahead. The nearly helpless Captain O'Roque could only rely on the troublesome onboard gauges and directionals to guide his way.
"What in the world is taking so long?" he asked upon realizing that reaching the destination was taking longer than anticipated. According to his calculations that were based on the flakey instrumentation panel, he should have reached Chicago nearly two hours ago. But he was seemingly drifting and spiraling off to someplace else that—instinctively—he felt might have been the shores of Indiana.
Suddenly, an alarm sounded.
"Now what!" he shouted. "Blast-it, anyway!" Captain O'Roque was growing increasingly worried and impatient. Anyone in his situation would.
It was the steam pressure gauge which now indicated no steam pressure. And no steam pressure meant no power to propel the boat. In this condition the boat would be at the mercy of the storm and waves while spiraling off to anywhere. Should Captain O'Roque have gone to inspect the engine and see if the gauge actually told the truth?
Then, like an answer to all of his worries, he spotted a faint light in the distance. "A lighthouse!" Acting quickly, he turned up the volume of the two way marine radio and pressed the mic button. "This is Captain Chadwick O'Roque of the April cargo steamboat, en route to Chicago requesting..." He stopped speaking into the mic upon seeing that the transmit light did glow on the radio. He un-keyed and re-keyed. There was no clicking sound of the radio's internal relay or no glowing light to indicate transmission. "Confound-it, anyway!" shouted the captain. "Can't my radio even work?"
The lighthouse was the only source of hope to reach land alive and in one piece. Seeing that the engine lost power and that the radio could not transmit to call for help, the captain believed it was best to "abandon ship" and drop the life raft into water to make it to shore. There was no one on board except for him; no chance of guilty conscience for leaving crew members or passengers behind.
Unfortunately, the captain never survived his frigid voyage to shore that fateful Christmas night. His frozen, lifeless body was found washed up on shore nearly two days later. The steamship or any remains of precious cargo were never found.
So where did he end up? Captain O'Roque’s instincts were correct. Due to the flakey instrumentation and a steam engine that continued to lose power throughout the night, the April cargo steamboat drifted some hundred miles off course near the shore of northwest Indiana. The lighthouse was actually a small, unmanned lighthouse that stood at the top of a sandy hill of the beach. Had the captain reached shore, he would have had to hike some distance up land to reach the locked and unoccupied lighthouse.
It might sound unusual to many people; but the body of Captain Chadwick O'Roque was buried on the grounds of the small lighthouse. His wife and family felt that the lighthouse was his final journey in life, and that it should have served as his grave marker. And it served as his final resting place until some seventy years later when the beach front land where the lighthouse stood had been purchased by a developer to build homes. By then, the lighthouse had been decommissioned; and it was decided by the developer that the lighthouse was an eyesore. It was almost torn down until another party agreed to lift the lighthouse from its foundation and transport it off the beach to be sold as a decorative building.
The lighthouse now proudly stands at the entrance of Lighthouse Pointe in Frankfort, Illinois. But it sorely misses its resident of many decades, Captain Chadwick O'Roque. His body was left at the beach front property in northwest Indiana. Some say he forever wanders, in search of the lighthouse that provided him a final moment of hope. And according to recent reports, it appears that Captain Chadwick O’Roque has found the location where the lighthouse has moved.
If you happen to drive the dark road of Saint Francis Road in Frankfort, Illinois late at night; look for an older gentlemen with full beard dressed in early 1900s steamboat captain attire. He often stands near the lighthouse door and appears to knock to get in.

Friday, March 20, 2015

The Black-Leather Glove Hand Mystery--story six

Hello All:
Happy First Day of Spring!
5:45 pm (for Chicago, at least) is the official time of Vernal Equinox. And we get double the dose of excitement on this day with a full solar eclipse. You wouldn't have seen it in America, however. The eclipse was only visible to the Arctic, northern Europe, north/west Africa, and parts of Asia.
Today's featured writing is a new installment to the Black-Leather Gloved Hands Mystery series. If you've been following along, you will certainly agree that it contains an unusually high amount of violence, profanity and rape. I've mentioned before that it might be easy to conclude that the only purpose of this series is to showcase violence. But I promise you that there is a deeper purpose. In upcoming stories we will finally learn about the person behind the black-leather gloves that perform these horrible acts, and what his objective is.
Have a great weekend! Spring is here!
The Black-Leather Glove Hand Mystery--story six
Recall in our last story of the Black-Leather Gloved Hands mystery series that George needed to take a couple of days off work because his wife had been brutally beaten and raped in the upstairs bathroom of their home. He tried to chase down the assailant who barely escaped and peeled off in a brown van. But so unbelievable; while chasing the van, George actually tripped and rolled his ankle. He is now in an ankle brace for a few weeks and advised by his physician to stay off his feet as much as possible.
What's more; it was determined that George has high blood pressure with tachycardia—most likely due to the sudden stress in his life. He must now take beta blockers to slow his heart down and lower his blood pressure to safe levels.
If George didn’t already have enough stress in his life; upon returning to work on Friday morning, he learned that the assailant who beat and raped his wife actually videotaped the assault, and then texted it to all of George's coworkers for entertainment. The suspect has to be someone at George's place of employment! After all, how would this person know all of George's coworkers' cell phone numbers?
A gun in the house is a serious matter. Make no misunderstanding; it's a life-changing decision to purchase a firearm with an intention of using it for protection. And don't even think of using a gun as a means to threaten an intruder or attacker! Such people never heed warnings or threats, and see a waving gun as nothing more than a fear of using it. The moment you draw your gun, you should have every intention of aiming and pointing the trigger. That's the sort of world that a criminal understands.—sad but true.
It was Sunday morning; 7:02 am as George entered the bedroom and shook his wife awake. He had been downstairs in the basement for about an hour where he played with some new toys.
"Krystal... Krystal, wake up."
"Hmmm...?" she rubbed her eyes and then squinted while adjusting to the morning sunlight. "What is it? What time is it?"
"It's 7:00 in the morning. Come downstairs; I want to show you something."
"What is it?" she asked while sitting up and placing her feet on the floor?"
"It's a little surprise for you." proudly answered George. "Come-on downstairs. Hurry up; I can't wait to show you."
In her nightgown, Krystal followed her excited husband down the flight of stairs to the main level where the smell of—what Krystal originally believed to be—fireworks could be detected.
"What is that?" she asked.
"You'll see." answered George. "Now come-on, it's in the basement."
Both husband and wife descended the second flight of stairs to the basement. Immediately, Krystal noticed a thin cloud of smoke in the air.
"What the heck are you doing down here?" she asked.
George walked over to the table and picked up two .38 Magnum revolvers and brought them over to Krystal.
"Oh my gosh! Are those real guns?" exclaimed Krystal.
"Indeed they are!" affirmed George. He handed one to Krystal. "Here, this one's yours."
Daintily she held it by the handle and appeared to really wish she could put it down. "George, where did you get these?"
"Connections, baby... Connections!" he answered.
Krystal did not like the answer. "George, are these guns stolen? And aren't you supposed to be licensed to own them with some sort of conceal and carry permit?"
"Nah, we don't need conceal and carry permits." reassured George."I'm friends with the police commissioner, remember? And don't worry where these guns came from. I got them for a nice price—fifty bucks, each."
"George, I don't think this is a good idea." argued Krystal.
George was growing impatient with his wife's resistance to the guns. "Well, wouldn't it be nice to resume living your life without being in fear of someone attacking you?"
"Yes, but..."
George cut her off. "Well alright, then. I solved it for you. We now have guns." He pointed his .38 Magnum towards a stack of rubber car tires at the other end of the basement that had fire wood stuffed in the middle. It was his makeshift target for practicing. "Watch this!" he said while pulling the trigger of the revolver.
There was a loud explosion and more smoke to add to the already accumulating cloud in the basement.
At the sound, Krystal partly crouched and dashed a few feet away from her husband. "Jeez! What are you doing, George? Have you lost your mind?"
"It's my indoor target. Isn't it nice? I guess the inner-city gangs make similar targets at the junk yards so they can practice with their guns. We might as well do the same. And don't worry about the gun smoke. I'll open the windows when we are done. I can't have them open, now, of course, or the sound might get outside for the neighbors to hear."
George next assumed the proper position for handling a firearm before squeezing the trigger. "I've got four more bullets left." he informed his wife. Then he yelled out, "Don't move, you mother fucker!" before repeatedly firing until there were no bullets left.
"George, stop it!" shouted Krystal.
"What? You can't be afraid of guns!" He tossed his empty revolver on the sofa and then man-handled his wife so that she pointed hers at the homemade target.
"Both hands!" he ordered. "Now squeeze the trigger."
Krystal did just that.
"Good!" congratulated George. "Do another!"
"Excellent! Now keep this gun with you at all times And every morning, come down here to practice a few rounds. Many experts agree that women should own a firearm, and learn how to use it."
Monday morning; George drove to the office, this time with his loaded .38 Magnum revolver on the passenger seat.
Why would he do such a ridiculous thing?
You see; along with taking his blood pressure medicine, the doctor advised George to find ways to reduce his stress. Driving is a stressful activity for George. It seems that motorists have difficulty understanding how to drive according to his rules. Either people go too slowly, or they tend to race him to squeeze into the next lane. George believed that he could reduce road rage stress by placing his grip around a firearm whenever a motorist did something wrong. He might even wield it or point it at the contending driver to finally make people understand that he meant business.
"You fucking asshole!" shouted George. "How dare you cut me off?" He reached for his trusty .38 Magnum that was fully loaded and ready to use. "There! Now that's better! It makes me feel good knowing that I can blow that fucker's head off."
Voila! Road rage problem solved!
As George pulled into the underground parking garage at work, he was sure to quickly hide the revolver under his seat. He couldn't risk having a security camera spot the firearm out in the open. Firearms are not permitted in the building. But as far as George was concerned, this rule was unconstitutional. He had a right to bear arms, and a right to protect himself as needed.
When finally pulling into his assigned parking spot; George carefully reached under the seat for the gun, and quickly slipped it into the inner pocket of his blazer. Ankle in a support brace; carefully limping his way throughout the day; the revolver restored his sense of feeling mighty and powerful.
But too bad George wasn't with his wife later that morning. At around 10:30 AM—all morning tasks and chores completed—Krystal went for a mid-morning walk through her subdivision. As recommended by George, she was sure to carry her concealed .38 Magnum revolver.
On and on Krystal walked, enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. Since it was Monday—the start of the work week for adults and a school day for children—the subdivision was quiet and seemingly void of people.
Now about this subdivision; it's a relatively new subdivision with only phase one of construction complete. If one cares to continue walking towards the edge of the main road, he or she will reach the underdeveloped area of nothing more than paved streets and vacant lots with signs that read, "Will Built to Suit."
Such a nice day; Krystal wished to enjoy her walk to the fullest, and continued on through the underdeveloped phase two of the neighborhood. It’s basically a square block with a large mountain of dirt at the center. Krystal couldn't have noticed the brown van that sat parked on the opposite side of the dirt mountain. This is why she continued to walk the pavement, counter-clockwise, in the underdeveloped section of the neighborhood.
With the brown van finally in view, a surge of nervousness and adrenaline spiked through Krystal's veins. But she kept walking with her head up and masking any possible fear of the vehicle.
She almost pulled it off until a man in dark clothes with ski-mask and black-leather gloves suddenly flashed open the side door of the van. He nearly flew over to her. It happened so quickly that Krystal could barely perceive it.
"Ha ha! I'm back!" he greeted before grabbing Krystal; locking her hands at her sides and placing his black-leather gloved hands around her mouth. It wasn't much of a struggle. Krystal is so thin and weak. She was easily dragged across a few feet and thrown into the van. Less than ten seconds ago, Krystal was enjoying a quiet stroll through the neighborhood. Now she was locked in the back of an unfinished van with the mysterious stranger who did all those horrible things to her some nights ago.
"Let me go!" she screamed out. "You had your fun!"
"Yeah, and I'm back for more!" answered the stranger. With that, he wasted not a second in zip tying her arms behind her back. Then he shoved her on the floor.
It was then that Krystal's .38 Magnum revolver fell on the floor. It was supposed to protect her. Now, while in bondage, the very monster who she was supposed to use it on had it in his possession.
"What's this?" he asked while reaching for it. "Is this a gun? Bitch, were you going to use this on me?" As Krystal lay there, crying, the stranger squatted on her chest. "What the fuck is this? Huh?" He slapped her across the face with his black-leather gloved hand.
Krystal sobbed and cried all the more.
"I'll tell you what you can do with this gun, Bitch." He pointed the barrel right at her face.
"No!" cried out Krystal.
"Suck it!" demanded the stranger. He gave her another smack across the face. "Suck the barrel of this gun."
With no choice, Krystal opened her mouth and carefully placed her sweet lips around the tip of the barrel.
"Give the gun some head!" demanded the stranger. "Take the barrel in nice and deep!"
While lying on her back, Krystal stretched her neck up and down to give the barrel a blow job.
"Come-on! Faster!” demanded the stranger. “Do it like you mean it! Do it like you want me to blow my load!"
Krystal frantically moved her lips up and down the shaft of the barrel like a crazed porn actress who pretended to enjoy having a cock in her mouth.
"Keep sucking, you bitch! Don't stop!" With the gun held in Krystal’s face, the stranger carefully moved off her chest, and then removed a utility knife from his pocket. The blade was new and sharp. With it he sliced open Krystal's shirt to expose her bare abdomen and chest that was covered by a pretty-print bra. The blade sliced right into the middle of it so that Krystal’s small tits were exposed.
As Krystal lay there giving the barrel of her .38 Magnum revolver the blow job of its life; the stranger clamped his leather gloved finger and thumb on Krystal’s left tit, and gave a good pinch.
Krystal screamed with barrel in her mouth.
"Hey, the only lip I want to hear from you is sucking!" warned the stranger. Then he continued to pinch and twist Krystal's nipple before switching over to the other. Eventually he leaned in and sucked both of her tits—really hard—while biting them.
The fine line between pleasure and pain had definitely crossed into pure pain. There was nothing to enjoy; nothing to do except suck away at the barrel of the gun like a porn queen.
Suddenly, the stranger sat up, pulled the gun out of Krystal's mouth, and tossed it aside. "Okay, I'm ready!" he announced. With that, he rolled Krystal over, and sliced through the back of her shirt and bra to pull it off. If that weren't enough, he actually sliced open Krystal's sweat pants to pull them off.
"Oooo! Nice flower-print panties!" he exclaimed before slicing the silk material with sharp blade. When Krystal was fully naked, the stranger pulled down his own pants and then reached for a jar of Vaseline that lay up towards the front seat.
"This is going to hurt, Bitch! I warn you!"
What could he possibly have had in store for poor Krystal?
The stranger dipped the tip of his erect penis in the jar of Vaseline. Then he pulled and maneuvered nervous Krystal up and towards him so that her ass pointed up in the air. She couldn't support herself on "all fours" like a true doggy-style position because her arms were zip tied behind her. But it was no bother for the stranger. She was in perfect position to place the tip of his erect cock at the entrance of Krystal's tight anus.
George and Krystal tried it, once, but it was too painful. As Krystal remembered, George managed to work his cock about halfway in before she begged him to pull it out. She vowed never to try anal sex, again. But now she had no control over the situation. The stranger was bound and determined to fuck Krystal up her tight, little ass. She cried and cried; started to scream in reaction to the horrible pain.
"That's right, Bitch!" cheered the stranger. "Keep screaming! Keep screaming because you like it!"
For over fifteen minutes, Krystal was brutally fucked up the ass by the merciless stranger. He seemed to enjoy ramming himself, just to watch her head knock into the sidewall. After which; he simply pulled up his pants, opened the side door, and kicked Krystal out into the street without any clothes and without her .38 Magnum revolver.
"Get the fuck out of here, Bitch! I'll see you next time!" He peeled off in his brown van, and left Krystal to walk home, alone, naked.
At 12:55pm, George was in a conference call with a customer. Suddenly, his boss poked his head in the office door.
Immediately, George knew there was a problem. He interrupted the customer on the phone, apologized and promised to call back.
"What is it?" he asked the boss upon hanging up.
The boss closed the door. "There's been another video sent out."
"What? When?" asked George.
"Just now." answered the boss. He played the freshly made video of Krystal being brutally raped in the stranger's van.
"Is this a gun...? Bitch, were you going to use this on me...? What the fuck is this...? Huh...?"
George watched in utter rage as the stranger smacked his precious wife across the face.
"Suck it...! Suck the barrel of this gun..."
George's heart pounded and raced as he watched in further outrage of Krystal wrapping her sweet lips around the barrel of the gun—the gun that was supposed to protect her.
"Give the gun some head...!" Take the barrel in nice and deep...!"
George could no longer contain himself. "WHAT THE FUCK????" he shouted while repeatedly kicking the side of a nearby file cabinet. He huffed and puffed; nearly blew flames out from his nostrils. "WHAT THE FUCK?????" His big, muscular arms dragged across the desk which flung his desktop PC, phone, and laptop computer across the room.
"HEY!" shouted the boss. "Take it easy! That’s company property, and it’s a lot of money!"

To be continued…

Wednesday, March 18, 2015


Hello All:
You'll find in your journey of using runes that there are various levels in interpreting meanings or invoking runic energy for some purpose. Take for example, Algiz. Most people understand this rune to offer protection. But it also enables communication with spirits and beings who exist in that world behind the veil. Anyone wishing to communicate with and use their help should get very familiar with Algiz.
Gebo represents gift giving/receiving. It often points to a magickal exchange. And as you continue in your journey of runes, you will soon notice runes paired with Gebo. You come to see the table where you perform a rune cast as some sort of trading post with beings who reside in other realms.
Now don't think of this business of sitting at your inter-dimensional trading post and working the Exchange as offering gifts to gods and goddesses for magickal favors in return. These are ordinary people just like you and me. Some of them might even exist, here, on Earth--simply accessing the world behind the veil like you to set up business on the Exchange.
Some important guidelines:
1. Those arranging business at the Exchange with you must make their intentions clear. You must do, likewise.
2. They must clearly identify who or what they are.
3. Never worship and never asked to be worshiped.
4. Never do business with questionable beings who could very well be evil.
Today's featured writing is a brand new story that addresses the concept of working the Exchange.
The clock on the nightstand read 1:17 am. Like many nights in the past couple of weeks, Bob had been awakened from another beckoning dream in which someone (or something) called out to him. Who or whatever it was pointed out the signs Bob had been given throughout the day. There was the family of deer that blocked Bob on the road early in the morning which prevented him from driving any further. They just stared at him as if communicating an urgency, something that he was to follow through with. Then there were the light bulbs that made peculiar noises at the office. The flickered and made a nearly harmonious buzzing sound.
The voice in Bob's dream continued to explain these things. "Don't you see them?" she asked—the voice of a woman. "I made these things happen for you."
Bob sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. "Who is she?" he asked himself. "This has been going on for the past couple of weeks.”
It took nearly an hour to fall back asleep. There were no further dreams of the beckoning voice that evening.
The following morning, a Thursday, Bob drove to work; but was forced to take a different route, thanks to a traffic backup—probably an accident. While doing so, he passed through a historic section of town and happened to notice a large sign in the front lawn of an old cape-cod style home that said, "Psychic Readings".
There was a phone number at the bottom of the sign that was easy for Bob to remember. Unsure as to why, he felt suddenly compelled to call the number and make contact with the individual.
"Hello?" It was a nearly monotone voice of a woman who answered."
"Hi... um... yes, I just drove past your house and saw the sign that you do psychic readings."
"Yes..." answered the woman. "Please come in. I can do a reading for you."
"Well, I'm on my way to work." answered Bob.
"Oh, but you should really come in, now. That's how it works." Then she hung up.
Was it another mystical sign which originated from the mysterious voice in Bob's dreams? Was he to follow through with an urgency to visit a psychic woman for a reading? Bob turned around in a nearby parking lot and head back to the old cape-cod style home where he parallel parked in the street.
It was a Gypsy woman who came to the door before Bob could knock. She was the sort of Gypsy that one might see at a carnival fortune-telling booth. She wore a rather motley collection of peculiar garments with a purple scarf that covered her long, black hair. Resting on top of her head was a gold-braided chain with pendant that hung over the center of her forehead—probably a mystical amulet that activated the third eye chakra.
"Good morning..." she greeted. "I'm Luminitsa."
"Nice to meet you, Luminitsa. I'm Bob." He gently took her hand and shook. An impressive collection of bracelets dangled from the Gypsy woman’s wrist.
"Follow me into the front room." ordered Luminitsa. "From what I understand, there is someone calling you... someone trying to get your attention."
"Yes!" answered Bob. "How did you know?"
"Ahhhh... Luminitsa knows all!" she exclaimed.
The front room wasn't at all far from the main entrance of the home. From what Bob could see of the place, there were plenty of nick-knacks cluttered on the tables, shelves and furniture—bizarre statues and sculptures that might have originated from third world countries, long ago. There were old, musty books scattered about. The house was old, and the Luminitsa chose to leave the hardwood floors exposed.
In the front room, Luminitsa sat down at octagon table that was covered by a deep red cloth with intricate designs. At the center was a circular cloth with zodiac symbols which were joined by a circle. A crystal ball mounted on gold stand was placed on top. There were other items that one would expect to see at a Gypsy fortune telling table. There were various quartz crystals, salt lamps, candles and Tarot cards spread about.
"Sit down!" ordered Luminitsa.
Bob sat down on the other side of the table so he could face the Gypsy woman.
"Your initial reading is ten dollars.” she began. “It's more of an evaluation fee, and it's owed up front."
Bob opened his wallet, and pulled out a ten dollar bill.
Luminitsa eagerly took it from him, and placed it in a wooden box by a nearby table.
"Someone is calling out to you in your dreams at night." began Luminitsa. "She has been causing many signs for you during the day, but you do not see them."
"You're right about the dreaming." agreed Bob. "And she has been telling me about the signs. So who is this person? Is it a family member; maybe a long, lost friend?"
"No..." answered Luminitsa while placing her hand on the crystal ball and closing her eyes. Her voice turned mysterious as she fell into a trance-like state. "Who calls out to you is not of this world. She comes from a place far, far away—so far that you could never reach it by foot, by horse, by car or by plane." Then Luminitsa opened her eyes.
"Okay...?" answered Bob. "Is there anything else?"
Luminitsa sighed, "It is very difficult for me to enter those trances. There are things I need to do to prepare myself. If you like, I can perform a quick ritual and learn more for you. But I'm afraid it's going to cost you."
"How much?" asked Bob.
"Thirty dollars." answered Luminitsa.
"Alright, is this how you operate?” asked Bob sounding so disappointed. “How much is this visit really going to cost me by the time I leave?"
"I understand your mistrust." explained Luminitsa. "But fortune tellers have to make a living, too. Like I said, it's not easy to do these things. And you owe it to yourself to find out who it is that calls out to you."
Part of Bob wanted to get up and walk away. But another part was anxious to find out who continued to call out to him in his dreams each night. It could very well be that no one would ever be able to supply an answer, except for Luminitsa."
"Fine! I'll do it!" agreed Bob while reaching into his wallet for a twenty and a ten dollar bill. "But this better be good! I'm trusting you!"
"I am here at you service." reassured Luminitsa. "Luminitsa knows all, and always sheds light on the most obscured secrets. That's what my name means: "little light".
Then she stood up and walked over to the corner of the front room where a folding Chinese partition wall stood that one might expect to see at a Chinese restaurant. "You are not allowed to come back here while I do my work, understand?" warned Luminitsa.
"Understood..." agreed Bob.
As Luminitsa stepped behind the partition, Bob imagined there to be another table with candles; maybe a mirror or some strangely-designed rug that hung from the partition. He could see that Luminitsa did something; maybe an ancient dance that enabled her to slip into another trance. This occulted working took place for nearly five minutes until Luminitsa finally emerged.
She nearly staggered over to fortune telling table and sat back down with eyes closed. She reached her hands on the crystal ball and appeared to use it as a means to support herself.
"Her name is Mirach [pronounced meer-aak]" began Luminitsa with eyes remaining closed. "She's a deity who resides in a higher dimension—a higher vibration existence—somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy. She has found you, and wants to do an exchange with you."
"An exchange?" asked Bob.
"Let me continue." urged Luminitsa. "Deities and those residing in higher dimensions live in a world very much unlike ours. You see; we take for granted the consistent placement of things such as lakes and trees, buildings that sit on land and the furniture inside of them to always be in the same place. We take for granted the concept of yesterday, today and tomorrow. The sun rises and sets. The seasons pass. Everything in our world is consistent. But in higher dimensions, this regularity isn't necessarily so. Things aren't so easily grounded like it is in our world. People who live in higher dimensions long for the energy and groundedness of our physical world. Just as you might wish to see things beyond your senses, or create realities through mere thought; people living elsewhere wish to have basic groundedness and stability. And that's what Mirach wants with you. She wants to do a magickal exchange—energy from your dimension to hers and vice-versa."
"What could she do for me?" asked Bob. It was, after all, a reasonable question.
Luminitsa opened her eyes and appeared to be pulling out the trance. Then she explained, "Making friends with such a deity could provide you knowledge and understanding of the universe in ways that your senses could never provide." she concluded. "There are just no limits. So many people throughout history have worked and utilized the Exchange. It can be thought of as an inter-dimensional trading post where magickal energy is swapped.
"But what do I need to do?" asked Bob.
"You need to pull her into this world." answered Luminitsa. You need to manifest and materialize her. You need to create a portal so that she can visit as needed."
"How do I do that?" asked Bob.
Luminitsa stood up from the fortune telling table and walked over to a bookshelf which contained a collection of musty, old books that looked to be centuries old. She selected one and brought it back to the table.
"You must use the Merkaba." said Luminitsa while carefully flipping through the pages of the old book. She reached a page that contained what appeared to be a hand-painted religious image of a biblical man who kneeled before a spirit in the sky—perhaps an angel. The spirit was encompassed by a large circle with peculiar geometric shape nearby.
"The first recorded revelation of the Merkaba to man was that of Ezekiel's sighting of the circular vessel in the sky. As you can see in the picture, the Merkaba was revealed to Ezekiel." Luminitsa pointed to the geometric shape that was near the spirit. It resembled two pyramids that had been squashed together at opposite ends.
Luminitsa continued, "The Merkaba is used to alter vibration for inter-dimensional travel. For us, here on Earth, it is most often used to manifest and materialize those residing in higher dimensions. But the priests of Ezekiel's time forbid the use of the Merkaba, and occulted it from ordinary man's knowledge. As they felt; it was for good reason. What if everyone materialized higher-dimension beings? And what are the chances that some of these beings are not so good?"
"I see..." answered Bob. "So where do I get a Merkaba?"
Luminitsa smiled.
"Well..." encouraged Bob.
Luminitsa stood up from the fortune telling table and walked behind the partition where she performed her ritual just moments ago. For nearly a minute she appeared to be searching for something before finally returning with a wooden box.
The box was opened. Inside sat a beautifully sculpted Merkaba crystal with a golden stand beside it—obviously for the Merkaba to sit on. The Merkaba, itself, was about the size of a baseball. Luminitsa announced, "I have a hand-crafted, authentic quartz Merkaba that can sit on this golden pedestal. I can sell it to you for one-hundred-fifty dollars. You might also want some sage and sage-burner to go along with it.
"Sage and sage burner?" asked Bob with a queer expression while shaking his head in rejection.
Luminitsa explained, "If you choose to pull in deities from other worlds, you want to ensure that they are not evil. Sage smoke is universally accepted as a useful tool to clean a room of bad energy and spirits. You walk the area of your Merkaba portal in a clockwise circle before opening it."
"And what makes you think I want to pay one-hundred-fifty dollars for your Merkaba crystal?" challenged Bob.
"You do..." said Luminitsa with a mischievous smile. "I am the only one who shed light on what haunts you throughout the day and in your dreams at night. And you are intrigued with what Mirach can do for you. She has powers beyond anyone and anything in our physical universe. You make a friend with someone like that; there will be no limits—even the sky. Such a small price to pay for a great opportunity."
"I can't believe I'm doing this." commented Bob. "Do you take debit card?"
"Yes I do!"
And so Bob set up a small table in the family room of his home that evening in hopes to duplicate the same effect that the Gypsy, Luminitsa, generated during her rituals. The Merkaba crystal sat on the golden stand in the middle of the table. And to make it all the more complete, Bob placed a lit candle on the side of the table.
Next he filled his sage burner, and then lit it so that smoke would be produced. With sage smoke pouring out, he walked around the table in clockwise motion, and made three complete circles. Satisfied that the air was pure and able to reject harmful spirits, he sat down at the table and unfolded a small sheet of note paper that Luminitsa had hand-written. It was to be spoken out loud at the time that the inter-dimensional portal was opened.
Bob called out, "Mirach, beautiful queen from Andromeda, in all your glory and wonder; I invoke thee; I invite and welcome thee through this portal that is powered by the Holy Merkaba. Since revealed to mankind upon the dawn of Ezekiel's awareness, the Merkaba has served as a vehicle for the angels and deities to cross over to us in the physical world. And so most beautiful queen from Andromeda, I call and summon thee. Manifest yourself and show to me some sign that you hear my invitation."
Almost immediately the electric lights in the family room, kitchen, even the hanging chandelier in the foyer went soft and flickered while making the harmonious buzzing sound. Bob recognized this phenomenon from many times before. It was truly the work and answer of Mirach.
Bob called out as instructed from Luminitsa's hand-written note, "I see that you hear me, Mirach. I am grateful for your manifestation, and am fully prepared for a magickal exchange with thee. If it be in your will to materialize in this moment, and use the Holy Merkaba crystal as offered; I humbly invite thee to physically appear."
At first there was nothing, not even the flicker of electric bulbs. Then, on a free area of wall that was void of furniture or hanging pictures, a soft light began to glow which eventually formed large circle. It radiated violet light which, somehow, commanded all the electric bulbs throughout the house to do the same. Or maybe the electric lighting in the house didn't work at all. Maybe such a tremendous amount of Earth energy was being converted to pull in a higher dimension being, and it caused the electric lights to no longer work. Perhaps the violet light that radiated from the large circle on the wall generated enough luminosity to flood the entire house.
What came, next, initially appeared un-Earthly and frightening. It was the first sign of Mirach, transmuting her higher-dimension vibration to match the vibration of our physical world. She was a ghostly silhouette that resembled the human form with flowing garments and long hair that seemed to blow from an unfelt wind from afar.
Was this all that Mirach was?—a ghost?
But then she took on more recognizable features—face, eyes, bare shoulders and arms that were left uncovered by a style of garments that—as Bob soon realized—were nothing more than a collection of joined-together flowers and various items of nature to create clothing.
Finally, she stood there in all her glory, beauty and true form—the most beautiful creature that could never be seen on Earth. Her glowing, honey-colored hair continuously shifted, tousled and blew from some unseen life-giving wind. It made the twinkling sound of millions of tiny bells that rang and matched from afar. The blue irises of her eyes constantly changed pattern, and at times appeared to match the stormy waves of the sea.
Despite the fact that she was many thousands of years old, Mirach was youthful. But there was something in her face—maybe around the eyes—that suggested eons of wisdom. Earth people might notice something similar in paintings of Greek or Roman goddesses that exhibit a similar feature of dramatic age and wisdom.
Her body was perfect; not like the perfect that today's media dictates. Rather she resembled the perfected natural form of some ancient goddess—delicate skin with healthy tones and coloring; the cleavage of nurturing breasts that promised to give; legs built to move gracefully as if floating on air.
She did something as her feet touched the floor. Bob could see this. The weight of her energy sunk into the Earth and seemed to revitalize and recharge Mirach. "It's one of the many things I needed from your world." she finally spoke. But she didn't speak with her mouth. Rather, she used telepathy. And her voice sounded just like the voice in Bob's dreams.
"So it's you..." said Bob.
Mirach nodded while smiling. Then she continued, "I want to thank you for cooperating with me. I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am that you trust me enough to call me into your world. The act required much bravery."
"Oh it was nothing, really." answered Bob.
"I truly hope that the Exchange works for you as well as it does for me. Luminitsa was accurate in describing my world. The key item I need is groundedness and ability to materialize in a physical world to do my work."
As Mirach communicated these things, Bob just continued to study her in amazement. She was truly out-of-this-world beautiful. Nothing like her existed on Earth. The more Bob studied and absorbed her, the more he fell deeper and deeper in love with her.
Mirach smiled upon realizing Bob's feelings for her. "We have these things in our world, too."
Feeling it was safe, Bob finally approached her as-if she were an ordinary Earth person. "Well I'm Bob." he stuck out his hand to shake.
She accepted Bob's hand. "Mirach... at your service as much as you are at mine." Her hand was ice cold, probably from traveling many millions of light years across an inter-dimensional portal.
So close to her body, Bob couldn't help but admire Mirach's slender arms and shoulders that were exposed from the type of garments that she wore.
"It's okay to touch." Mirach telepathically voiced.
Bob did just that; he caressed her bare arms and shoulders. Although silky smooth and full of excitement, Mirach's skin was icy cold. But he remained mesmerized by her beauty, and helped himself to a loving kiss to Mirach's lips.
Mirach really didn't mind. She was aware of Earth people's customs and acts of physical affection. It was obviously important to him. Mirach merely interpreted the affection as a sign and offering of his love for her.
The kiss was enough to nearly cause Bob's heart to explode though his chest. But he couldn't help but notice that her lips were as cold as dead December. He tried again for another kiss, this time reaching his hands behind Mirach and feeling her ass. Interesting thing; the garments that she wore were deceptive in such a way that they appeared to be three-dimensional flowers and various items of nature, but they actually yielded full skin-to-skin contact of what lie underneath.  It was as-if Bob’s hands could penetrate Mirach’s clothing.
Once again, Mirach didn't mind. Bob was permitted to feel an ass that could very well have belonged to an angel.
But then, suddenly, Bob pulled away—nearly pushed the queen from Andromeda away. "I can't do this!" he said in disgust.
"What?" asked Mirach.
"I can't do this! You're body is cold and lifeless. It's like you’re dead."
Bob’s words deeply saddened Mirach. She wasn’t used to hearing such things from her world. "I'm sorry, but it's the best we can do.” she apologized. “It's not easy what we did. It's not easy to transmute the energy of one dimension to another. I thought you understood this."
Bob argued, "But it feels like you're nothing more than a mannequin! How can I do something with a mannequin?"
Growing all the sadder, Mirach walked over to the glowing, violet circle on the wall in a motion of departure. But before vanishing, she telepathically voiced her disappointment. "I was warned not to trust physical beings of your world. I was told that the people of your day and age are like young and immature children; in need of many eons of evolving before offering any meaningful inter-dimensional exchanges. Although I certainly benefited from grounding myself in the physical world, you harmed me by deeply hurting my feelings. What good was my visit?"
"I don't understand! What's the problem?” asked Bob. “I was just saying that you feel cold and lifeless. I can't get excited. It’s just too weird for me."
"That's the problem with the people of your world." explained Mirach. "You say thoughtless things to one another and pay no mind to hurting one another’s' feelings. Then you expect them accept what you say without getting hurt."
With that, Mirach vanished. Bob would never see her again.
The End!

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

The Black-Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery--story five

Hello All:
The Black-Leather Gloved Hands Mystery series: so much drama, profanity, violence and rape that you'll think you're watching cable TV! And maybe that's what I have in mind with this series.
But to be honest, there actually is more to this story than to simply shock the reader with extreme drama and graphic violence. As I write the paragraphs to this series, I sometimes say to myself, "Yeah, yeah; she has to get beat and raped and stuff. That's what my sick-minded readers want. But I can't wait for the truth to finally be revealed. I can't wait until the mystery is uncovered so that the bizarre story can begin to unfold."
There is more to the Black-Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery series than drama, profanity, sex and violence. Trust me. Keep reading. Bear with the victims as they endure more suffering.
And today we have a new story for your enjoyment.
The Black-Leather-Gloved Hands Mystery--story five
Recall in our previous story of the Black-Leather-Gloved Hands mystery series that forty-eight-year-old housewife, Krystal, had been brutally attacked and raped in her upstairs bathroom. This was done by a man dressed in black clothes and wearing a ski mask with black-leather gloves. The assailant repeatedly choked Krystal to prevent her from crying out to her strong husband, downstairs, for help. It wasn't until after the assault, and regaining consciousness, that Krystal staggered downstairs to inform her husband.
After blasting his mighty fist through the foyer drywall, George whipped open the front door to run out and hunt down the assailant. Whoever did this had to be out there, and would soon pay, dearly.
The sound of tires peeling off could be heard from about three doors down. It had to be the assailant. Immediately, George ran in the direction of what was now a brown van with roaring engine that raced off. George ran faster and faster. "I'll get you, you mother fucker! I'll fucking kill you once I get hold of you!" Of course he knew he would never reach the van in time. But if he could just catch sight of the license plate, it might help police identify the suspect.
Faster and faster George ran. But so unbelievable; he misjudged his step and rolled his ankle which caused him to fall down.
"Son of a fucking bitch!" He yelled out. "Why??? Why the fuck??? Why???" George pulled himself off the ground and limped back to the house.
Inside; poor Krystal sat on the stairs, naked, while crying. A stranger's cum still dripped from out of her pussy.
"Did you call the police?" shouted George.
"Well why the fuck not???"
"I don't know!" screamed Krystal. "I was just brutally attacked and raped. I'm still in shock!"
 George whipped out his phone and called his friend, Nick. Recall that Nick is the police commissioner.
"Nick, get your people out here! My wife was just raped!"
"Raped?" Nick asked on the other end.
"Yeah, raped! Get them out here, now!"
Ten minutes later, a dozen squad cars with two ambulances and a fire truck were lined up and down the street of George and Krystal's neighborhood. Paramedics assessed any possible injury to Krystal, while police investigators took Krystal's report.
"I tried to scream for my husband to help, but the stranger kept choking me so I couldn't breathe. And he did all of this while raping and beating me." Poor Krystal broke down and cried some more.
As George heard the report, he grew all the more outraged that he couldn't have been there to help his wife. He felt terribly guilty, but quickly surmised that it was the police's fault with their slip shoddy investigation.
"So what have you people been doing these past twenty four hours, huh?" George demanded.
"Easy, Mister." answered one of the police officers. "Rest assured we'll be doing our best to catch this guy."
"Well your best isn't good enough! Look what happened! I mean just look at her!"
Another officer warned, "Sir, you're going to have to relax while we conduct this investigation. If you're having trouble, then step outside. Understand?"
"RELAX?" shouted George. "DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO RELAX? WHAT THE FUCK???" With that, George blasted another hole into the drywall with his mighty fist."
Two officers immediately rushed over. One of them had handcuffs. "Sir, I hate having to do this. But we're going to have to bring you down to the station and let you cool down in one of the cells."
"No!" argued George. You keep away from me!" He cocked back and tried to take a swing at the approaching officer.
The officer dodged the attack, and then four others jumped George to tackle him to the ground.
"Stay on the ground! Sir, stay on the ground!" warned one of the officers.
Krystal sobbed in the distance from all the drama. In the meantime, a female detective struggled to take a semen sample near Krystal’s crotch for possible DNA matching.
"Relax, honey." she urged. "I know this isn't easy going through all of this."
George was eventually handcuffed and further restrained with zip ties to his arms and legs. The man was a ferocious beast and terribly strong—not to mention very heavy. It was necessary for six officers to carry outraged George into a squad car and throw him in.
It was Thursday morning, more than twenty-four hours after Krystal's brutal attack.
Thanks to his police commissioner friend, Nick; George was back on the streets and released without having to post bail, pay fines, or be advised of mandatory court appearances. Not a bad deal for someone who tried to attack police officers.
The police investigation into Krystal's brutal attack that Tuesday evening yielded no solid leads. Neighbors were interviewed, but none recalled the brown van parked somewhere on the neighborhood streets that night. DNA samples obtained from the assailant's semen did not match any DNA in the police data base. For now, Krystal's attacker remained at large.
George had been off work for a couple of days so he could handle the recent crisis. This morning he was at his physician's office to have his badly sprained ankle and possibly broken knuckles examined.
"So, we'll get a support brace for your ankle." explained the doctor. "Be sure to wear that at all times."
"For how long?" asked George.
"For at least six weeks."
"What about running?" asked George.
"Well, you can hardly walk right now. You should at least give yourself a few weeks of staying off of it as much as you can. As for running, I wouldn't do that for at least a couple of months. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to take it easy."
George sighed. "I can't believe this. Of all the times for something like this to happen to me."
The doctor continued, "So let's talk about this injury that you have to your knuckles."
"Yeah, I've been getting really mad and losing my temper.” explained George. “The only thing I can do is punch the walls."
"You should refrain from using physical violence whenever angry.” urged the doctor. “It only introduces the likely possibility of injuring yourself."
The doctor reached for the blood pressure cuff on the wall. "I just want to check your blood pressure and see how things are going." The band was strapped around George's large arm, and the stethoscope stuck underneath. Then the doctor pumped. In less than thirty seconds, the doctor shook his head in disbelief. "Whoa! 195/110 and a pulse of 110 beats per minute! You definitely have hypertension."
"It's probably all the stress I'm under." suggested George.
"Probably..." agreed the doctor. "And under your current circumstance, I'm going to have to put you on beta blockers. They will help slow down your heart and regulate your blood pressure back to a normal level. If we hold off on treating this, you risk having a stroke or heart attack. We must take care of this, now."
"Okay, I'll start taking them." agreed George.
On Friday morning, George returned to the office. By now, surely all of his coworkers were aware of the crisis that he and his wife were up against. But how many people would truly be sympathetic to his circumstance? How many people would, instead, see the crisis as a weakness; and seek a moment to backstab George when his defenses were down.
George exited his vehicle and walked though the underground parking garage while talking to his wife on the phone. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" he asked.
"I'll be fine, George. Yeah, I'm a little spooked; but we can't live in fear and put our lives on hold."
"You're right." agreed George.
George rode the elevator upstairs to the floor where he worked. He walked through the main entrance and passed the front office, but was soon stopped by the office manager.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to talk to you, again."
"Oh, no." exclaimed George. "What, now?"
"Well..." George's boss closed the door once both men were in his office. "... Do you remember when those pictures of your wife were emailed to everyone in the office?"
"Do you remember that IT accessed everyone's mailboxes and removed the emails?"
"George this isn't easy. I know your circumstance, and I know that your wife was attacked earlier this week. But whoever did the assault actually videotaped himself doing it. There was a camera in the bathroom, and he was sure to record everything. And that's not all. He somehow managed to get all the cell phone numbers of the employees in this office. Then he sent them a link to a webpage where the video can be seen."
George could only return a bewildered look.
"There was no way for IT to retrieve the messages." added George's boss. "The cell phone numbers are owned by the individual carriers. People saw the video this time."
"Did you get one of these messages?" asked George.
"Yes I did, and I forwarded it to the police for evidence."
"I want to see the video." said George.
"No, you don't want to see that." urged George's boss.
"Show it to me, now!" demanded George.
"George, it's just not..."
"Okay, but I warned you." Reluctantly, the boss opened the video gallery on his phone and selected the assault video.
"Why do you have that downloaded to your phone?" asked George. "I thought it was a link sent out where the video could be found."
"Yes, but to view it, it's necessary to download."
The video started, and George watched as a man dressed in black clothes with black ski mask strangled his naked wife in the shower. He watched as she tried to fight him off. But the man in ski mask with black-leather gloves was too strong for her.
George began to hyperventilate. His heart raced, and his face turned beet-red. The beta blockers apparently weren’t working.
"You shouldn't watch any more of this." urged George's boss.
"No, I have to see it!"
George watched as Krystal's pussy was maniacally fucked by the finger of a leather glove. The stranger choked and beat George's precious wife and even slapped her tits!
As the moments passed, George grew all the more outraged. The individual behind this attack was truly sick. He turned a horrible assault into a video to be watched for mere entertainment. And he made sure that all of George's coworkers could see it by texting a link as to where it was available. It had to be someone who knew all of George's coworkers; probably someone who worked in the office. Even worse, how many male coworkers in that office actually enjoyed seeing the raw attack. How many received sexual arousal from seeing naked Krystal being raped in the bathroom?

To be continued…

Friday, March 6, 2015


Hello All:
Earlier in the week I awoke around 2:00 in the morning from a most unusual dream. In the dream I was watching on a large screen the 1980s music video from Jefferson Starship, Stranger.
Curious, I arose from bed and went down into the basement where I sat on the sofa with my laptop and searched YouTube for the video shown below. After which I shook my head and said to myself, "Why... in the world... was I DREAMING ABOUT THAT???"
Not that there's anything wrong with the song or the video. The concept calls to mind those eerie moments in which we encounter strangers, and swear we might have known them before. I did some research into this phenomenon and hoped that psychology could offer a reason as to why we experience this mysterious state, but could come up with nothing. It might be a temporary psychological condition that is similar to déjà vu which is explained by one hemisphere of the brain temporarily out of sync with the other.
There is the condition of prosopagnosia which is a psychological disorder in which one has difficulty recognizing faces. But this is more of a serious condition brought on by brain damage, stroke or mental deterioration.
The more I think about it, the more I conclude that believing you might have known a stranger before runs deeper than a mere psychological explanation. For you see, the phenomenon occurs to both individuals at the same moment.
Why, just last weekend I was in the produce department of the grocery store and picking out some vegetables; when I spotted a woman who circulated the area and offered fresh-squeezed orange juice samples to customers. When she approached me, it felt as if time slowed down. There was something in her eyes; something that I recognized. I knew her from somewhere; knew from before.
She was one of them; one of those witch-people that penetrate the veil to interact with me, or perhaps an incarnated alien from a distant star.
"Would you like to try some fresh-squeezed orange juice?" she asked.
"No, not today. Thank you." I answered.
And with that, she walked away.
Now you think that would have been the end of the encounter, but she returned some moments later when my wife was nearby. Apparently she wanted to offer her a sample of fresh-squeezed orange juice. "Do you want to know who he reminds me of?" the woman asked my wife. She explained to both of us that I reminded her of some actor from days long passed. It was no one I ever heard of--apparently before my time. But as she explained this, I continued to gaze into her eyes.
The encounter concluded with me finally stating, "Yes, we definitely had a moment, didn't we? I thought I totally recognized you from somewhere and you likewise. Isn't that interesting?"
I'm sure you, the reader, have had similar experiences. If so, you will agree that it begins with eye recognition. Perhaps the eyes offer some pattern or code within a person's soul that resonates with another.
Do check out the video from Jefferson Starship. The song sums up the above phenomenon quite well. Jefferson Starship comes right out and states that these experiences are so much deeper than we can understand, and originate from behind the veil with the words, "What is veiled now soon will be shown Come walk with me through the unknown." Of course you might need to view an ad before seeing the actual video. That's just YouTube...

Today's featured writing is a new installment to the Cableman series of short stories. And it just so happens that the video, Stranger, sets the stage to the closing of the story.
Have a great weekend! And don't underestimate encounters with strangers.
A brief recap of previous stories…
Recall that in recent stories, the Cableman had been struggling with the new reality of having a tracking chip implanted in him by federal agents. This was done on Friday morning while accessing one of the nodes to the underground pneumatic tube network.  One of the tubes were supposed to quickly send the Cableman to Boulder, Colorado. From there he was to thwart the sinister Draconian crotch rocket gang, the Drax, from stealing God's power meter at the NIST calibration building. But the Cableman was detained by Agent Lynn and her skeleton crew of federal agents, who are secretly identified as the CAA (cosmic awareness agency). Before being tagged, the poor Cableman was interrogated of his supposed affiliation with the interstellar space brothers and sisters.
"I don't know anything about the space aliens!" he might have cried out. "You people have it all wrong!"
But never mind the fact that he flew into the pneumatic tube access node in his flying saucer. He was probably one of them—one of the space brother aliens. And that's why the Cableman was tagged with a tracking chip.
Later that evening, the Cableman was introduced to his Pleiadian girlfriend's parents at a cocktail party that was hosted at the family's residence. But Mother and Father did not like the Cableman. The same could be said of the hundred or so business colleagues of Father's who attended what was a celebration of a multi-million dollar business acquisition.
The following morning, the Cableman used his technology savvy to hack into the government implanted RFID chip. He learned that he could jam the receiver so that Agent Lynn and crew could no longer track him. It was only necessary to pay a visit to Radio Shack for some electronic components and build one.
In the mean time that Saturday morning, Agent Lynn and the skeleton crew of the CAA sat in a conference room at the FBI headquarters in Washington DC to discuss a possible covert space sister exchange program that might be taking place at the Playboy Mansion. Along with this, the possibility of Hugh Hefner owning a space brother constructed "Playboy machine" was discussed that supposedly kept the old Hugh Hefner so young and active.
"We cannot let this alien technology land into the wrong hands." warned the FBI to the CAA agents. "You must find and confiscate it!"
Poor Hugh Hefner! All he wants is to use his Playboy machine to continue living the life of the ultimate playboy.
It was now Saturday afternoon as the Cableman sat in the back of the cable van and finished soldering the remaining connections on his homemade government tracking chip jammer. Just then; his Pleiadian girlfriend, Tina, announced her presence.
The Cableman turned towards the back of the van and was delighted to see her. "Hey there!" He staggered out from the back and hopped out. Then he hugged and kissed Tina. But something wasn't right. The Cableman sensed that Tina was troubled. "Is everything okay?"
Tina sighed, "No, not really."
"Why? What happened asked the Cableman.
Tina sniffled while holding back the tears. "My parents don't like you. They've been fighting with me and lecturing me all day." The tears started to flow as Tina broke down, "I really stood up for you and tried to convince my father that you are a good guy. He just doesn't believe me."
The Cableman embraced Tina while combing the back of her long, black hair. "Shh... that's okay. It just takes time." Then he asked, "Do your parents normally like your boyfriends?"
"Well I don't get many." she sniffled. "But they usually have some sort of hang-up with them. I really thought that my dad might have been impressed with you, but I guess I was wrong."
The Cableman pulled away just enough to look into Tina's eyes while reassuring. "It's not the end of the world. Your parents just don't like me at this time. Things can change. I just think it has to do with my age."
"That's one of the reasons why I'm supposed to break up with you."
"Break up with me?" asked the Cableman while fully releasing his embrace. "You're not breaking up with me because of your parents, are you?"
Tina shrugged her shoulders. "I don't want to..."
"Yeah... but..."
Unsure of what to say, next; Tina stood there, pouting, while nearly staring at the ground. She wanted the Cableman to take charge and tell her what to do.
"Tina, you're... what...? Twenty-three-years-old? Doesn't that make you a woman? Aren't you capable of making your own decisions and stuff?"
Tina argued, "Cableman, it's not that simple. I still live at home, and I'm supposed to do what my mom and dad say. It's in our culture."
The Cableman pointed out, "Yeah, but aren't you Pleiadian? I thought your culture was more free-spirited and free willed."
"A what?" asked Tina.
"A Pleiadian" repeated the Cableman. "You still don't know?"
"Know what?" probed Tina.
"That you're..." The Cableman suddenly froze. He realized that protecting Tina from the CAA was just as much his duty as protecting Melissa and Tito. "Look, I can't talk about this stuff out in the open. Hang on." He climbed back into the cable van and clipped the 9 volt battery into his homemade government tracking chip jammer.
"I'm a what?" demanded Tina from outside the van.
"There, it works!" he said to himself
Hundreds of miles away, Agent Lynn received a text alert to her Android device. "866.5 MHz undetected?" she asked upon reading it. "Oh no, is it running out of batteries?"
Suddenly, she recalled the alarming phone call that was received from the Cableman earlier that morning. How in the world did he get her number? Well now it made sense.
"Oh, he's hacked into the RFID circuit of the chip!" exclaimed Agent Lynn. "Well what's he up to?" Agent Lynn removed from her tote bag what initially appeared to be nothing more than an incredibly dark pair of sunglasses with a small communication cable attached to them. She plugged the free end of the cable into a communication port on her phone.
What was Agent Lynn doing?
She was using a secret Government technology in which a master bio chip that was very similar to the Cableman's had been implanted in her. The android device controlled her chip, and sent out a connection to the Cableman who was hundreds of miles away. It would soon relay all of the Cableman's thoughts along with the things he sees and hears onto the internal screen of the dark glasses. In short, Agent Lynn was able to remotely view the Cableman's life as needed.
"Okay, everything still works..." said Agent Lynn to herself while viewing the Cableman's world as he hopped out from the back of the van.
"Tell me what you're talking about!" demanded Tina, as seen and heard from the inside of Agent Lynn's glasses.
"I'm sorry I couldn't answer you right away." apologized the Cableman to Tina. (Yes, Agent Lynn could hear this as well.) "I needed to activate an anti-tracking device. You see, the government is following me and they've implanted a chip in me to track me."
"Stop it!" shouted Tina while slapping the Cableman on the side of the shoulder. "Stop talking crazy and be serious!"
"I am being serious." reassured the Cableman. "Now let's get to this matter of you being a Pleiadian."
"And what's a Pleiadian?" asked Tina.
"It's a society of human-looking aliens who originate from the Pleiadian star system. They're humans, just like us; only more technologically and socially developed. And that's what you are. You're an incarnate from the Pleiades. One of the traits of such people is difficulty, and sometimes total inability, to assimilate with time dictated schedules and agendas here on Earth. That's pretty much you, isn't it? You don't like punctuality and following schedules? And it isn't uncommon for Pleiadians to have ADHD which should rightfully be called Attention Dialed into a Higher Dimension."
Tina's lip quivered as a tear ran down her cheek.
"You just haven't realized that you're Pleiadian, yet." concluded the Cableman.
"I can't believe you!" shouted Tina. "I can't believe that you're making fun of my ADHD, and calling me an alien! With the way I defended you today and fought with my parents? You know... Maybe my mom and dad are right!" With that, Tina stormed away.
"Tina!" called out the Cableman. "Wait!"
"Just stay away from me!" she warned.
The Cableman realized that she was better off without him. The federal agents were at his heels, and he might only put Tina in harm's way. They would abduct her and maybe lock her up, somewhere, along with other suspected space brothers and sisters. Besides, Tina was probably too young for the Cableman.
Hundreds of miles away, Agent Lynn snorted. "Well so much for the saucy, little Mexican!"
Around ten o'clock that night; the Cableman sat, crashed-out, on the floor of his family room with the music of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. Sitting between his legs was a cool graphic-slider bong decorated with Kenneth Arnold flying saucer print. It was hand crafted and designed to commemorate (at the time) the fifty-year anniversary of the Kenneth Arnold UFO sighting. The Cableman picked it up at the local flea market. After all, how cool is it to have a bong with UFO decoration?
Just as the Cableman was about to torch it up for another hit, a text message alert sounded on his new Android device.
"What the...?" The alert kinda freaked out the Cableman because he was stoned. But he quickly came to his senses. "Is it Tina?" he asked out loud.
No, it wasn't Tina. Rather, it was a cold and unfriendly message from the cable company automated dispatcher. "Customer Service Required: possible internet outage at customer's home." The message displayed the customer's home address.
The Cableman clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Is this my weekend to do outage calls?" Still in disbelief that he had to go to work on a relaxing Saturday night, the Cableman reluctantly stood up and set the bong on the coffee table. "I'll get back to you, later."
The Cableman quickly brushed his teeth and used mouthwash before changing into a fresh pair of utility clothes. Then he left the apartment building and into the night.
Outside it was cold and drizzly—unusual weather for the time of year.
"I should have worn my jacket." said the Cableman to himself.
After traveling the roads for fifteen minutes through heavy rain, the Cableman reached the customer's house. Being late in the evening, there was no need to park in the street and put out the safety cone. The Cableman simply exited the van, clicked up the driveway in his steel-toed boots through the rain, and reached cover under the enclosed porch. Then he knocked.
What soon answered was a rather strange Gypsy-appearing or—perhaps—Bohemian woman who obviously felt it was perfectly acceptable to answer the door with an Indian-print blouse unbuttoned all the way down, and no bra underneath. The blouse scantily covered her breasts which, from what the Cableman could see of them, appeared to be really, nice tits!
For more than a few seconds, she made prolonged eye contact with the Cableman. She was one of those witch-people, or—perhaps—another space sister from a distant star. She knew him from somewhere. Maybe the two were lovers in a past life. Maybe they lived during the Civil War, and might have been married. It really didn't matter what the scenario was. The fact was simple: The woman who answered the door and stood before the Cableman was one of those people; one of those strange people who believe in strange things, and believe that a random encounter with a stranger is like the mother ship just landed.
"Right..." finally spoke the Cableman. "You're one of those people... got it."
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Nothing..." answered the Cableman. "But this is why the government has tagged me..." The he stated his reason for coming. "Well, it's Saturday night and you've called me over because of bad Internet service."
"Yes!" she answered. "Come in!"
The Cableman stepped in the door and wiped his boots on the mat.
"I'm Ivy." greeted the customer.
"Nice to meet you, Ivy. I'm the Cableman."
"Just the Cableman?" she asked.
"That's what they call Me." answered the Cableman. "So bring me over to your computer."
Ivy led the Cableman into the kitchen where a notebook computer sat on the counter. Immediately he saw that the screen had YouTube loaded on it.
"Well I see YouTube. Do you mind if I drive and do some basic tests?"
"Please do." agreed Ivy.
The Cableman typed into the URL.
Google quickly loaded on the screen.
"Hmm..." The Cableman opened a command prompt window and entered the command, "ipconfig".
In less than a second, all of Ivy's network information appeared and revealed that she was 100% live on the Internet.
"So what seems to be the problem?" the Cableman finally asked. "It looks like you have service."
Ivy sighed, "Well... you know that one song from Flock of Seagulls that goes, 'Raindrops falling... Winter feels so gloomy... Hear a knock upon my door... Stranger calling... Eyes that look like mine... He said you know I've called before..." Ivy sang the words while maintaining the beat of the song with her hands.
The Cableman is a true 1970s rocker. Although the song Ivy sang was early 1980s, he immediately recognized it. "Stranger by Jefferson Starship? And that's not Flock of Seagulls! That's definitely Jefferson Starship! I can't believe you thought that."
"Are you sure?" argued Ivy.
"Positive!" insisted the Cableman. "And I remember that music video. What was with that video, anyway?" He maneuvered back to YouTube and typed in Stranger by Jefferson Starship. But before hitting enter, he paused and looked over to Ivy whose side of her tit and partial nipple could clearly be seen. "You did not call me over here on a Saturday night to help you find a song on YouTube, did you?"
"I'm sorry." apologized Ivy. "I really thought there was something wrong with the Internet."
The Cableman sighed. "Well, as long as I'm here, let's watch the video.
The drums started, followed by the bass guitar. Then screamed in the lead guitar.
"Oh yeah!" exclaimed the Cableman. "I haven't heard this song in a long time!"
While trying to enjoy the video, the Cableman suddenly sensed Ivy staring at him. It was as-if he had become the stranger in the video who came to Ivy's door late at night. Is this what Ivy wanted? Was this the true reason for the Cableman coming over that night?
The intensity was too much for him. The Cableman finally looked over to Ivy whose eyes made deep, longing contact with his. Somehow, she saw her eyes in his. He was the one! They knew each other from some past life, or maybe encountered one another in their dreams at night.
What was wrong with the Cableman? What held him back? Melissa left him for Tito; Tina had basically broken up with him; and now a mesmerized Bohemian chick with nice tits needed his company on a cold, rainy night; live out some Jefferson Starship fantasy—whatever gets her off.
It was the Cableman's destiny. It was weird chicks like Ivy who were really into him. And as he moved in to kiss, the Cableman spread open the Indian-print blouse to expose Ivy's beautiful tits.
The music played on as both Ivy and the Cableman—now in the carpeted family room—kneeled on the floor to tear off one another's clothes. The words cheered through the speakers on the notebook computer, "What is veiled now soon will be shown. Come walk with me through the unknown."
Hundreds of miles away, Agent Lynn sat in a dimly-lit hotel room with the dark, remote viewing glasses on. "You are such a man slut!" she exclaimed while ripping the glasses off. "I can't believe this!"
Poor Agent Lynn; the only men in her life were federal agent geeks who couldn't wait to search the Playboy Mansion for space sister playmates. When would a man finally give Agent Lynn the love that she needed?