JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (54 page)

He was about to respond, but then stopped himself in time. He was going to suggest
why work in your line at all? Why not encourage them to strive for something
better
? But that wasn't for him to say.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, choosing his words carefully. His now empty glass sat in front of him. He had switched to Seven-Up after he had finished his Jack Daniels upon meeting her. “I once knew a priest in Los Angeles, a real nice guy named Father Glowacz. Father Glowacz's church was in a really bad section of the city.

They had a bad gang problem there. Four or five different gangs operated within a ten mile area. The neighborhood was really affected by the gangs; the violence, the drug sales, the ... just everything about it. Many of these gang members were hopeless themselves. They had no self confidence, no confidence in each other, really, despite their

... pseudo macho pontifications of Latino pride. What it all boils down to is that they didn't give a shit about each other.” At the mention of the word
shit
, Rita's eyes widened.

He put a hand over his mouth, a look of shock on his face. “Oops! Sorry. That slipped."

Rita laughed.

“Anyway, Father Glowacz came to the parish and listened to the kids. He and another guy there, a counselor who used to be a gang member, paid attention to the gang members. And what they did was start a youth program. They recruited volunteers to staff it and they provided after-school activities for the kids. They offered workshops for those kids more prone to join a gang, and they offered counseling and bible studies for gang members. They worked with them, prayed with them, loved them the best way they could.

Sometimes they ... went to their old ways and picked up a gun when the heat got too hot in the kitchen and tempers flared. Father Glowacz presided over too many rosaries and funeral masses for those kids than he'd probably like to remember. But he stuck with the system and eventually got a grant from the city to start a business. It was entirely run by several ex-gang members and it was a small Mexican restaurant in East Los Angeles. A business owner donated the equipment.” He smiled. “That business has done well. Three months ago I heard it was voted that they served the best tacos in all of East Los Angeles."

Rita smiled. “That's really neat."

“I guess what I'm trying to say is you've got more going for you than ... what you're doing.” He looked down at her gently, touching her shoulder lightly. “You can do whatever you want to do in your life, Rita. And if you ever feel you need help you can call me."

Rita Giacomini looked at him. Her features had softened, became more weary.

She looked like she wanted to drop all the troubles she was carrying right on his lap.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a smile that shined with true honesty for the first time since they'd spoken. “I really appreciate it.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I really do."

“But...” He detected a slight hesitation.

Rita turned to light another cigarette. He waited calmly while she took a drag and blew the smoke out. She took a sip of her screwdriver—her third one—and stared off into the bar. Finally she turned back to him and her features had grown softer. He saw that if she dropped the façade she carried herself in she could be a beautiful girl. “Oh, I don't know,” she said. “I really appreciate what you're trying to do, but I haven't been to church in, like,
years
—"

“Going to church has nothing to do with it,” he murmured.

“—and I'm not really sure if I can really go back. I mean, I've never been the best Catholic."

He smiled. “That makes two of us, Rita."

“What do you mean?” She took a drag on her cigarette. “You're, like, a
missionary.
"

“Big deal,” he said. “I'm human just like everybody else. All I do is to help intercede for our Lord Jesus Christ in helping people get closer to Him and accept Him as their Lord and Savior. That's all."

Rita seemed to take this all in. She took another sip of her screwdriver, finishing it. “Yeah, well ... what church do you work at? Or is that preach at?"

He laughed. “Well, I wouldn't call what I do preaching. We Catholics usually leave that up to folks like Pat Robertson or Lou Sheldon."

Rita smiled shyly. “You know what I mean."

“I do know what you mean,” He said, smiling. “And to answer your question, I am assistant to the head pastor at St. Peter's on the south end of town."

“Oh, I know where that is! That's just off Interstate 5."

“Right."

“I don't live too far from there. Maybe ten blocks or so."

“Well, there you go! You can come by and see me anytime."

“Really?"

“Really. And it doesn't even have to be in the capacity of church. If you ever need to talk to me for any reason, you can call the church and have me paged. We can talk about whatever you want, whenever you want. If you have any kind of problem—and I mean
any
kind—I'm here for you. And I won't press you to start attending mass if you don't want to."

For the first time since they'd started talking, Rita Giacomini looked relaxed, almost bubbly. “That would be nice. I've been wanting to ... you know ... talk to somebody, but I don't know who. Sometimes I get really confused—"

He glanced at his watch and groaned. “Oh no! I'm running late. I promised a friend I'd stop by and feed her cats at six-thirty and it's already twenty after.” He looked at her. “I'm really sorry, but I've got to run."

“Oh, that's okay,” Rita said, stubbing her cigarette out. “I've got to get going myself."

“I really hate to interrupt our conversation,” He said, reaching into his wallet and extracting a couple of bills for the bartender's tip. “But this friend of mine—she's a secretary at St. Peter's—is on vacation for two weeks and she left me in charge of her cats. It shouldn't take that long to feed them all, but it has to be done."

“You make it sound like it's a chore,” Rita said, clutching her purse as she got off the barstool.

“It's not that,” he said, stepping away from the bar. “It's just that I was really enjoying our conversation."

“I was too,” Rita said, smiling. They headed toward the entrance of the bar. As they passed the lobby, he glanced at their reflections in the mirror and he flinched at what he saw.

Rita Giacommini was at his side, smiling and laughing as he nodded and smiled, too. He noted his own features, which were contorted, a shimmering mass of feminine monstrosity. Black hair sprouted from his head to hang about his shoulders; his mouth was a red maw. Twin mounds of corpulent flesh sat perched on his chest. No matter how hard he tried to hide it with the clothes he wore, he knew what lay beneath the surface.

They walked out of the bar together. They headed out to the parking lot, Rita reaching for her keys when he snapped his fingers.

“Listen, if it's not too much trouble why don't you come with me to the house and then back to the church? I can show you around.” Rita stopped, right hand in her purse as she looked up at him. He smiled reassuringly. “It shouldn't take long. I was really enjoying our conversation and I hate to break it up just because of this chore. We can talk on the drive, and once we're at the church I can show you around so you'll be more familiar with the place if you decide to visit. I'll run you right back here to your car in no time."

Rita nodded, her features brightening. She smiled at him. “Yeah. I think I'd like that."

He smiled, motioning toward a row of cars. “Great!"

He led Rita to his car—a tan Oldsmobile Sedan—and opened the passenger door for her. She got in, he closed the door, and went to the driver's seat and got in. He started the car and sighed, turning to her with a smile. “Now where were we?"

She laughed, and started talking about her Catholic upbringing. He nodded and smiled at the appropriate times as he backed the car out of the parking space and headed out of the parking lot, merging into the thoroughfare of Interstate 5. He was barely listening to her, barely able to sustain his pleasure that he had gotten her into his car. She was a big step up from the gang members and their girlfriends that he had relieved himself with previously. In fact, compared to them she was high class. Rita looked to be in her early twenties and didn't appear nearly as used up as some of the female gang members he had taken. Next to Carmen Aguirre, she was one of his most attractive victims. Maybe he could focus on women and men like her now rather than the criminal element who were so easy to win over. It would definitely be more challenging.

He smiled as they drove, nodding and answering Rita's chatter with “yes, uh huh's” or “wow, that's really great's". The home they were driving to was one he had bought from Charley's and Mother's life insurance cash-out policies. He had forged the signatures himself. It was easy to put the money into the property so he would once again have his private place for his fun and games. It would prove to be more private then the back house in Highland Park.

Of course, the drawback was if the shit hit the fan here like it did back in Los Angeles, he wouldn't have his ex lover's family to blame his fetish on.

He smiled as his mind ran down the list of events that had led to the present: how easy it had been to lure gang members to his car by posing as a priest, sometimes a nun, other times as a street-walking whore. How easy it had been to take them to the back house; how easy it had been to come on to them once the facade was down, and how they reacted—what homeboy wasn't up for playing out his fantasy of fucking a nun? Or a priest? And then the few times he had gone after women, how they had responded to his advances just as he had thought they would, responding in basically the same way. And once he got them into his dungeon ... the rest was just so easy. Applying the right pressure to their throats, inserting the ball gag in their mouths and trussing them up. Then waiting for them to wake up and feeling the power surge through him as their eyes widened in horror as he held the power of life and death in his hands. Of course, the best part was the look on their faces—in their eyes—when he lopped off their heads.

His own parents had taught him so well. It was they he always thought of as he raped his victim's dying bodies, it was their faces that he superimposed on the faces of his victims as he snuffed out their lives in his make-shift dungeon.

And the more he did it, the more power he felt over them. They would never hurt him again.

In the end it had been easy to replace Charley's rather middle-of-the-road porn with his own unique taste in pornography when things started getting too hairy. He had Charley to thank for everything. The guy was a slob and left shit everywhere, so it had been easy to swipe a couple of hairs off his brush one morning as he was heading out to his car (the brush had been left in Charley's truck, with the window open, making the theft even easier). He had put those hairs to good use, planting a strand or two with Chrissy's head to divert attention. The rest he had scattered around the back house. He even had Charley to thank in snaring Carmen Aguirre. He had been leaving the back house when Carmen had rushed out of the front house and almost ran into him. Carmen had been angry and was on the verge of tears and she had been so glad to see him, she had to go to the bathroom so
bad ...
and he had led her back to the rear house and let her in.

She had been so thankful and so had he. He had been smitten with her the moment he saw her.

Of course, that last night was the clincher. Charley was on his own downward spiral himself. The buttwad had always been a pussy; Charley had lusted after him when he had been fucking his brother, John. He remembered the way Charley used to look at him whenever he flew back east to visit John. And he remembered the look on Charley's face when John arranged the rental deal with Evelyn. Charley probably jacked off every night just thinking about him. That really had been a nice arrangement; he'd had the safety and privacy of the Glowacz's back house to partake in his fetish. And he'd had John's vow as a priest to keep his mouth shut. John had started to put two and two together a few years after he followed him back to California. He had sensed John was putting the pieces together and he had gone to him; the two were still involved sexually, John still had to have his occasional dose of S&M domination. He had told John that he was confiding to him as a Catholic. He had confessed with the right amount of sincerity and conviction, and John had heard his confession and been bound to keep it secret between the two of them; as a priest, John was bound not to tell anyone. Over the years he had visited John in the confession booth at Our Lady and informed the priest of his latest conquests, taking a special glee in knowing John was prohibited from going to the authorities. Not if he wanted to keep his position with Our Lady. Not if he wanted to be exposed; if he wanted it kept secret that he still wasn't coming to him at night to play out S&M scenes, he would keep his fucking mouth shut. And he had.

He really hadn't seen that finale coming from Charley, though. No fucking way.

He had been quite surprised at Charley's boldness; it had been Charley's move that had brought him out.

And it had been his coming out that had made Charley go completely mad.

The rest had been easy. He had deposited the newspaper clippings of his work in Charley's suitcase, as well as the few personal items he had kept from the victims. The tapes that he had kept in the dungeon were dumped in Charley's living quarters. The remaining heads in his freezer were placed in a large trash bag which he had put by the suitcase; it would make it appear that Charley was going to take the heads and get rid of them. All that was left was to get rid of were Carmen and Miguel whats-his-name, bitch slap Charley around some more, make him go into the back house and leave his fingerprints all over everything (and boy what a sight that must have been; he wished he had that on tape. He could still picture herding Charley in the back house, the portly man's hands tied behind his back, ball gag in his mouth, his eyes wide and afraid. He remembered how Charley reacted as he held the knife to his throat and undid the rope binding his wrists, remembered commanding Charley in his best tone of domination to put his palm and fingerprints
here
and
there,
and that feeling of power had almost made him come right there). Once that was over, the rest was easy: distort the truth a bit when the detectives questioned him, and wait for Charley to finish himself off in prison. That had been the last thing he'd commanded Charley to do. He had whispered it in his ear as he sat the fat fuck down on the floor and placed Evelyn's head in his lap. He had whispered it to him over and over as Charley sat in catatonic shock. He told him exactly how to do it. He knew Charley would follow his orders explicitly.