The Killing League

7.

Lady of the Evening

The Fort Walton MotorLodge sat on Florida Highway 30, a half mile from an outlet mall featuring Kenneth Cole, Adidas and Off the 5th.

In Room 232 Amanda Dekins sat on a bed. Her skin was tan but looked gray in the early morning light. Her hair was frazzled.

She stood, put on her micro skirt, knee boots and tube top. She went to the dead man’s pants and emptied his wallet of the cash.

Amanda looked back at the bed. She went to the night table, picked up the small bottle of clear liquid laced with Rohypnol, and tucked it into her small black purse.

She looked at the john.

His face still had a look of utter and complete surprise.

Or at least, what was left of his face.

She looked at her handiwork. It really was unbelievable. It was an old excuse when you were questioned by the cops for something you may or may not have done. You claimed you couldn’t remember. That way, you didn’t have to give any f*cking details that would trip you up later.

But this…thing…she was doing now? She really couldn’t remember. It was like, she’d slip the mickey into the loser’s drink, and when he passed out, she’d use whatever was handy. In this case, she’d pinched a steak knife from the restaurant where the poor slob had taken her to dinner. She remembered waiting for him to pass out, then stabbing him the first time, right in his big white belly.

But this black cloud just drenched her mind with rage and she really didn’t remember anything after that. She sort of came to awhile later, breathing hard, looking at the flabby white guy she’d cut into pieces of meat like they’d just seen at the Sizzler.

Amanda stuffed the money into her purse and realized that she couldn’t remember when she stopped f*cking the johns and began killing them instead. It didn’t matter. Business had never been better.