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Old 27-Sep-18, 03:22
dirksneath dirksneath is offline
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Default Smile For the Camera and Die

This is my latest story, which includes four fights and the beginning of a fifth one. The story is very long and very violent, and does not end well for most of the victims. It will be posted in nine segments.


Part 1

What the fuck? The man couldn't believe what was happening. This little girl, who was only eleven, just eleven-years-old, had her bare legs around his neck, facing him so she could see his eyes and know how scared he was, and was squeezing him so hard he couldn't breathe, not to mention the fact she was hurting him like the devil, worse than the devil, actually. After giving him the worst beating he'd ever had in his 67 years, she was trying to either choke him to death or break his neck, one or the other, he wasn't sure which just yet, but after he was dead it wouldn't matter, would it? All this shit had started innocently enough – weird, but innocently, or at least he thought so. She had showed up at his door wanting to wrestle, that's all, just wrestle, no dirty stuff, and her little friend wanted to film it.

The child was smiling at him, which didn't surprise him much, as he'd already decided she was crazy, and that's what crazy people did, they smiled a lot with that crazy look in their eyes, or at least they did in some of those movies he'd seen on Netflix. But they stabbed people with big knives, that's how they usually did it. But this little girl was something else. She was using her whole body, but especially her legs, as a weapon, so he knew something was coming, and that it wouldn't be good. Sure enough, it was bad. Why couldn't she pick on somebody her own size, he wondered, still trying to think this was all somebody's idea of a joke, somebody sent her over as a prank, and it would all be on film for everyone at the Way Back Inn to laugh at when they saw it, and then it would be all over the internet and he'd be the laughing stock of the whole town, although by this point there was nothing funny about it, nothing funny a damn bit.

It had all started about an hour ago, when there was a knock on his door. He'd just taken a shower and gotten dressed to go out to get some Walmart brand Liquid Plumber for a stopped up drain in his bathroom sink, and a new pair of overalls while he was there, as his old ones were just about worn out. He opened the door, and when he saw two little girls standing here, he figured they were selling Girl Scout cookies, but then he knew it was too late in the year for that. They did that right after Christmas, and it was now June. Anyway, the smaller girl had blonde hair and a pony tail, real cute little girl, with what they called hazel eyes, not quite brown or green, but hazel. She wore a pair of shorts. They were white with a stripe running down the hips, basketball shorts, but maybe a little shorter. She wore a gray tee shirt without sleeves, what he thought they called a tank top, and flip flops on her cute little feet with pink polish on her toenails. She was the one with the camera, which they explained a minute later.

The other little girl was the one that did all the talkin'. Her name was Ana, she said, “with on 'n.'” He didn't know what she meant at first, so she had to explain by spelling her name, making sure he knew it was with one 'n,' not two. She wore an old, faded pink tee shirt and a pair of white cutoffs that were cut off real high, showing her legs, and he could see she had muscles, but not like a body builder. Hell, she couldn't have been a minute over 12, probably not that old. He figured she took dancing, or maybe gymnastics, since that's what all little girls seemed to be into as far back as the 70s, when that little girl named Nadia from one of those old Comminist countries got perfect scores in the Olympics.

She had long, pretty blonde hair, or what he called dirty blonde hair, because it had almost as much brown in it as blonde. It looked like it may not have been washed in a couple of days, but it was still nice hair, he thought, kind of curly or wavy, that was a better way to describe it, wavy, not curly. She had a pretty tan, like she spent a lot of time outside, but he figured the other girl did, too, but her tan wasn't nearly as nice as Ana's, that's Ana with one “n.” Her eyes were brown, and whereas the other little girl wore flip flops, this one was completely barefooted and didn't wear any polish on her toenails or fingernails. He later noticed she had rusty looking callouses on the bottoms of her feet from going barefooted so much. He'd seen her around the neighborhood, and the way she was dressed that day was pretty much the way she always dressed – shorts, tee shirt or tank top and barefooted, always barefooted. Come to think of it, he didn't think he'd ever seen her wearing shoes, not even flip flops, and she'd lived there she said since she was eight, which was like about three years.

The girl who was now beating him up just came right out with it when he opened the door, saying that she liked to wrestle and fight with boys, and her bestie, as she called the other little girl, although he found out her name was Brittany, always videotaped her and they posted it on YouToob, this place on computers where people put up videos of all kinds of things, including vacations at the beach, kids playing Twister, and men and women wrestling, and even little girls, apparently. However, she said she couldn't rassle boys anymore, because the police told her not to. Actually, the parents had taken out restraining orders, and the local judge of juvenile court said if she did it again, he'd send her to that juvenile place, so she wanted to see if she could beat a man, and asked him if he'd be willing to wrestle her and let them upload it to YouToob. He looked at her kind of funny, then asked them how old they were. Ana said she was eleven, and her friend with the camera and flip flops was almost eleven but still ten. That's about what he had figured.

Pete Rayburn was a lonely man since having retired from Johnson's Truck and Tire Service two years ago. He had never been married and hadn't been with a woman, at least in a sexual sort of way, in 20 years, and didn't have very many close friends. He used to hang out at the local Way Back Inn, drinking beer with his buds, but finally had to stop due to health issues. His doctor had convinced him he was an alcoholic, and he had to go away for a little while, for treatment.

Then when he got out he went to AA meetings, hoping to make new friends, as he wasn't supposed to be around people who drank. However, it wasn't as much fun going to IHOP, or International House of Burgers as they called themselves now. What did they call it now? IHOB? It just didn't have the same ring to it. But whatever they called it, drinking coffee and Cokes just didn't do it for him, and most of the folks who went there after AA talked too much about Jesus and wanted him to go to church with them. He never had gone to church much, what with all those people prayin' to a dude who died on a cross 2000 years ago, which somehow was supposed to save everybody from their sins. Just didn't make no sense to him. Also, AA meetings were so depressing, he just couldn't keep going, because instead of discouraging him from drinking, they made him want to drink more than ever.

So he was lonely, and even though he'd never admit it, the little girl who now wanted to wrestle him looked kind of cute, especially in those short shorts. Both of 'em were cute, but especially that little Ana. She hadn't started really developing yet, not one of those little girls who could pass for 16. She looked like what she was, an eleven-year-old girl, not a teenager, but she had nice legs for her age, and he was definitely a leg man. Not that he was some “prevert” who wanted to have sex with her, or even engage in a little fondling or kissing, but wrestling? Well, sure, why not? Besides, the girl was asking him, not the other way around. So like a fool, he said OK.

“Just don't hurt me too bad,” he had told her, back when it was still kinda funny. The girl just smiled. She padded inside with her bestie flip flopping along behind her, then he asked her, “Seriously, what's this all about?”

She told him again, “I wanna wrestle you, and we want to film it. I told you that.”

“Yeah, but is it...you know, is it gonna cost me anything?” he asked. Kids were always trying to get money from grownups they don't know, or at least that's what he figured. Like most people who assumed things about kids, and other adults for that matter, he didn't really know.

She batted her eyes and said, kinda flirtatious, he thought, “Might cost you more if you don't.” He laughed. The girl had a wit about her, that was for sure.

“Let's show him some of the videos, Brittany,” Ana said. That's how he learned the other girl's name was Brittany.

She asked if he had a PC, and he said he didn't know, what's a PC. “A computer,” she said, like he was an idiot or something. “A computer with a big screen, 'cause they show up better than on a big screen,” she continued. He took them to a Hewlett-Packard computer he kept on his kitchen table, and she turned it on, didn't even have to ask how, and went to that YouToob place, and pulled up a video, or tried to.

“Damn,” she said. Little girls these days didn't mind cussing in front of grown men, he figured. They didn't have the kind of respect for grown-ups these days like they did when he was growing up. Some of 'em need to get ass whippings at home and school like he did when he was a kid, and that was true of girls and boys, he thought, not wanting to sound sexist like some women accused him of being.

Anyway, she was upset 'cause they had taken down another one of her videos for being too violent. She then saw all had been taken down, and her channel, as they called it, had been deleted. They was deleted 'cause they “violated their community standards” or some such shit, whatever that meant. That's what people said about porn, ain't it? Hell, she was eleven-years-old, how bad could they be? Besides, they couldn't be porn, I mean the girl was eleven, for god's sake. Whatever. She still had a lot of 'em on her smartphone, or at least a few, so she went to her smart phone, which she kept in the pocket of her shorts.

What she showed him bothered him, really disturbed him. She wasn't just rassling with them boys, kinda playfully, like he had figured. She was beating them up, some of them real bad, while they were begging her to stop, and most of 'em were trying to get away, but she stopped them and dragged them back down, then kept hitting them and kicking them, real hard, with her little bare fists and feet. Still barefooted, like she was now, sometimes putting one of them cute little feet on their faces, and even making one boy kiss her dirty foot and lick it.

“That's kinda rough, don'tcha think?” he asked, but she just laughed and showed him more.

The next video was the worst. She scanned forward through the scenes of her beating him up to where she had him in what they call a neck scissors in wrestling, where she had her legs around his neck, the back of his head up against the crotch of her shorts as she squeezed him. His face was real bloody where she'd been hitting and kicking him, and he was crying, but he wasn't sure if it was because she'd hurt his face or because she was squeezing him with her legs so hard. Probably a little of both, or a lot of both.

“You play kinda rough, don't you?” he asked, still trying to get a response from her about the kinds of things she was doing.

“Their problem, not mine,” the girl said, bringing up the next video, which he declined to watch.

Since he didn't want to watch the next video, she jumped up and said, “Wanna see how tough I am?” She flexed her biceps, which were pretty impressive, then pulled up her shorts, which were already short, and flexed her leg muscles for him.

Then she shocked him even further by pulling up her shirt and showed him a set of two-pack abs with a four-pack in the works. She didn't pull her shirt up high enough for him to see anything, other than her belly button, which was an innie, but at her age, she probably didn't have much to show, but he could see enough to know she wasn't wearing a training bra yet, just couldn't see her – well, you know.

“Wow,” he said, truly impressed. “You must work out.”

“Yep,” she said. “My daddy has a set of weights in his basement, and he's showed me how to work out. I don't just go down there and lift weights, I have a routine for everything that he set up for me. I work out every day, plus I take swimming and gymnastics.”

Gymastics! He knew it. But weights? A little girl? Oh, well, he figured. They probably had little girl body builders on that YouToob place like everything else. He made a mental note to check it out later, not knowing that he wasn't going to be able to.

Still holding her shirt up, she said, “Hit me.”

“Huh?” he said.

“Hit me in the tummy,” she said. “I got strong abs. So hit me and see for yourself.”

“I ain't gonna hit a little gal,” he said. She held her shirt up a few more seconds before dropping it.

“Suit yourself,” she said, disappointed. “You'll change your mind before I'm through with you,” she said with kind of a naughty twinkle in her eye.

“OK, you ready to rassle me?” she said, getting up.

“Well...just don't be so rough with me, like them little boys,” he said. “I'm an old man, remember.”

“I'll remember,” she said. He noted the fact that she made no promises, just said she'd remember, for what that was worth. He soon learned the hard way, it wasn't worth much. Not much at all.

As soon as they were sure the camera was working, Ana assumed a wrestling position, going into a crouch, then said ,“OK, let's rassle.” No preliminaries, she just got down to it.

He said, “Ain't there any rules?”

She said, “Oh, yeah...I guess. Just don't pick up something and hit me. We can't use stuff to hit each other with. Other than that, anything goes.”

The other little girl kicked off her flip flops and started filming. Her little feet were cuter, more delicate that the other girl's feet, but he still liked the other little girl better. Not for long, though. Not long at all. Ana once again assumed a wrestler's crouch, and was waggling her fingers at Pete in a “come on” sort of way, ready to “rassle.”

By then, Pete was thinking that maybe agreeing to them filming it had not been a good idea, but it was too late. Even though he wasn't going to do anything that might, you know, get him in trouble, still, having invited her in and agreeing for her to wrestle him would be at best embarrassing, and at worst troublesome if she decided to accuse him of anything, you know, sexual, but then again, if she did, it would all be on film and he'd have the evidence that nothing bad happened, nothing but letting her wrestle him. People might say he was stupid for doing it, but there wouldn't be any evidence of him trying to fool around with her, so it was kind of a good thing, he decided. It wasn't long before the video was the least of his worries.

Then they locked up, arms extended, hands on shoulders. The girl shoved him into the nearest wall, then backed up and ran at him, hitting his body with hers. She did it two more times, then slammed her knee into his nuts. The first part was kinda fun, but not that second part, her naked little toes crunching into his nuts. Damn that hurt.

“Hey, watch it. That shouldn't be allowed,” he said, feeling like he needed to throw up. He was bent over and hadn't had time to recover before she came at him again.

“Sorry. Not in the rules,” the crazy little girl said, as she pushed his head down and clamped her legs around it, which he thought was kinda inappropriate, I mean, her bare legs around his head, but she thought of doing it, not him, certainly not him, then she looped her arms under and around his, placing her hands on his upper back. Up on her cute little tippy toes, she leaped a couple of inches in the air and took him down to the hard linoleum kitchen floor, releasing his head at the last second so it smashed into the floor with the girl crashing down on top of him at the same time, busting his nose and causing it to bleed.

“That's called a pedigree,” she told him, as she got up and started pulling him up to his knees. He had seen that move at the American Legion hall a couple of times, where he sometimes watched that wrestling stuff, and had thought it was a pretty good one, until he experienced it for himself. Shit fuck, it hurt like hell.

She then smashed her fist into his face, knocking him back down to the floor. His nose, still smarting from the pedigree move, exploded in pain as he hit the floor on his back and slid a few inches before coming to a stop. The little girl didn't cut him any kind of slack. Instead, she dropped on him and straddled his chest, grabbing his wrists and pinning them as she crawled up and onto his shoulders, knees pressing down into them so that he found himself in a schoolgirl pin. He could have easily rolled her off, but at least she wasn't hurting him too much, and besides, even though he felt kind of guilty, he kinda liked it, that is, because she wasn't hurting him, at least not yet.

“You didn't say anything about being able to punch and kick people,” he complained, trying to get her to agree to not being so damn rough.

“Didn't say nothing about it being against the rules, neither, dumbass,” she responded.

“Hey! Watch your mouth. I'm still a grown man, and you're just a little girl,” he snapped at her.

“I'm kicking your fucking ass and you're worried about me calling you 'dumbass?'” she said. “Boy, you really are a dumbass.”

She then drew her fist back and hit him again, and again, and yet again. She just kept hitting him.“Stop it, damn you,” he yelled. “Look, you just got me in a pin. You got a three count, a ten count, probably about a thirty second count, easy. So you win.”

“Pins don't count,” she said, “It has to be a win by submission.”

She had him so rattled, he didn't even think to submit, so he rolled her off, but she got his head between her legs, and started pulling his face into her shorts, and he said “Woah, we ain't doing any of that shit, that's getting a little too personal,” but she didn't care, she just pulled him into the part of her between her legs with only her shorts and panties between his face and her most private place, at least, assuming she was wearing panties, he didn't know for sure if she was or not. He kept saying “Woah, none of that shit, please,” thinking that maybe he shouldn't have cussed, but them girls couldn't hear him by then anyway, 'cause his face was in the girl's shorts, and his voice was muffled.

Damn it hurt like hell. He then started to submit, but couldn't breathe. He'd forgotten that you could tap out, just lightly slap his hand on her leg three times. So for now, he just took it, not knowing what else to do unless he really hurt the child, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Blood was flowing out of his nose all over the little girl's shorts, but she either didn't realize it or didn't care. She started pulling his hair to add to his misery, making it that much harder for him to pull away from her. He tried to tell her to stop, but couldn't get enough breath to do anything but lie there and suffer.

Finally he started to stand up, figuring she couldn't weigh more than 90 pounds, and even though he was no weight lifter, he figured he should be able to handle that, although he knew it wasn't going to be easy. It turned out to be harder than he thought, as every time he tried, she either twisted one way or the other, or else she fell forward and onto him, forcing him back down, or she fell backward, back onto the floor, taking him with her.

At one point he grabbed her arms to hold her still, then slowly got to his feet, but when he did, she twisted one way then fell into him, causing him to fall all the way back down to the hard floor on his back, the little girl's weight crashing down on him and making it hurt even more. She lost her leg hold, but recovered quickly while the old man was still trying to figure out what to try next, and climbed onto his face, straddling it.

“Woah there, young lady,” he said, those his voice was muffled, and he wasn't sure she could hear a single word he said. “Now this even worse.” He didn't mean the pain, and even though she had trouble understanding him, she knew what he was talking about and responded to it by wiggling and giggling. He didn't care for that at all, especially the wiggling. And if anybody ever saw that on her video, his ass would be grass. They'd throw him in a prison with some big, man guy named Jawoski for a cellmate who'd invite him over to his cot for a sleepover.

The little girl then started bouncing up and down on his face, and he grabbed her by the hips and said, “Listen. This has gone way to far, and you gotta stop hitting and kicking me, I don't care if it's in your little rule book or not.” Then he continued: “And this inappropriation stuff you keep doing has got to stop. That ain't no way for a little girl to act.”

“What the hell you mean, 'inappropriation stuff?” she asked. He realized he's mispronounced it, but was too flustered to think how it was supposed to be said.

“You know what I mean,” he answered. “This pulling my face up to your...you know. And riding my face like that, bouncing up and down like my face is some kind of carny ride. Anybody see that on video and I go directly to jail and don't collect two hundred dollars.”

“I ain't got two hundred dollars and wouldn't give it to you if I did,” she said, missing the Monopoly reference. “But I'll tell you what.” she then leaned back, pulled her legs up and put her feet right on his face, where her...you know...had been a minute earlier.

“Kiss and lick my bare feet and I won't do it again,” she said, then giggled again.

He immediately grabbed her ankles and tried to pull her feet away, but she fought him, grabbing his arms to keep him from pulling her feet off of his face, keeping her tootsies there a few seconds longer. As he struggled with her, he remembered that show Cinemax After Dark. Cinemax was one of them cable movie channels, but the show he was thinking about was one that showed porn, but it was shorter than a movie, and on one of them, this gal had a guy kissing her feet and sucking her toes, and he knew what she was asking him to do was inappropriate. He finally remembered the right word, but never mind. He thought it looked like something he wouldn't mind doing to a good looking grown woman, but not to an eleven-year-old girl.

He rolled his body and got her off of him, but she stopped giggling and went back to rasslin', reaching up and grabbing his hair and pulling him toward her. She had a long way to pull him, so she stopped him from fighting for the time being by lashing out with her foot, kicking him in the nuts again.

“Please excuse my 'inapproptriations,'” she said and giggled. She kept pulling, as he was too hurt to put up much fight, and before he could stop her, she had his face up between her legs and wrapped them around him, catching his neck in another scissor.

“More 'inappropriations' for you, mister,” she said, collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Goddamn this little girl was strong as hell and knows how to wrestle, he thought, not to mention this other stuff that was part of it, but not the kind of thing even a little tomboy should be doing. Letting her come in and wrestle him was definitely one of those bad decisions they had warned him about during his alcohol treatment program, one of those “triggers” they called them, something that might cause him to want to go back to drinking. But first he was going to have to get out of the situation, and so far he wasn't doing a very good job of it.

Not knowing what else to do, he finally was able to breathe enough to say, “I give up. You win,” but she ignored him, so he started tapping her on her leg, like they did in those wrestling matches he saw on TV and sometimes the American Legion when some of them wrestling shows came to town. He always used to like the ladies wrestling, or “rassling” as he called it. These days the ladies sometimes rassled the men and even beat 'em, they'd gotten so good and so strong, but a little girl doing that shit, and not just to boys, but old men? What was the world comin' to?

“I give up. Let me go,” he pleaded, still tapping on one leg, then the other, thinking that under other circumstances he might light being able to pat her legs like that.

“Nuh uh,” she said.

“You little bitch,” he said, regretting immediately the fact that he cussed her again, especially on videotape. “You said pins don't count, only submissions. Well, I'm submitting, so damn it, let me go.”

“Nuh uh,” she said. “I have to accept the submission, and I don't accept.”

“Why the hell not?” he asked, incredulous.

“Cause I'm having way too much fun,” she responded.


To be continued...

Last edited by dirksneath; 27-Sep-18 at 20:34.
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Old 27-Sep-18, 14:13
dirksneath dirksneath is offline
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Would love to know what you think of Pete and whether or not you feel for the guy or think he deserves what is happening to him.

Part 2


“Shit,” he said, wondering how the hell to get out of this mess without having to really hurt the girl, as he wasn't that desperate. Yet. She kept him between her legs for several more minutes, until she got bored, so she finally let him go, but not for long. Didn't this kid ever get tired?

But she didn't. Things went from bad to worse. She pulled him partially to his feet, to the point where they were face to face, then punched him in the face harder than she had yet. He saw stars when he hit the floor, but she was just getting started. She then started kicking and stomping him as hard as she could. The little girl was barefooted, but as much as it hurt, she might as well have been wearing steel boots, it hurt so damn much.

At one point, she stomped his knee, causing something inside it to pop and hurt like hell. When he grabbed his knee, she realized she had hurt him bad, so she just kept aiming for that knee, sometimes missing, other times hitting the bulls eye of her target with one bare foot or the other. He was in more pain than he had ever been, so he started screaming.

“PLEASE, STOP.!YOU DONE HURT ME REAL BAD, AND YOU NEED TO STOP, JUST STOP IT!” he yelled.

“Make me,” she said, or practically hissed, sort of a cross between a hiss and a growl. She was crazy. Had to be.

She didn't stop. She just kept on and on, them bare feet landing harder and harder it seemed. He tried to roll away, since he couldn't get up, but she followed him, sometimes pulling him back by the hair. He pulled his leg up, the one with the hurt knee, trying to protect it, but like heat seeking missiles, them little feets just kept smashing into it until he passed out.

He came to when the other little girl threw a glassful of water in his face. “Don't you think he's had enough, Ana? He seems hurt real bad,” the little girl named Brittany said to her bestie.

“Nuh uh,” Ana said. “I'm just getting' started with him.” She then told her to start that camera up again, she wanted to get this on video for sure, even though they couldn't upload something like this.

Brittany did as she was told, and Ana, she went back to work on poor old Pete, totally insane and out of control by now. She'd never had this much fun, and neither God nor the devil would be able to stop her. No one could, and they better not try. She just kept kicking and stomping him.

He finally grabbed a bare foot and pulled her down and pinned her, or tried to, but the little girl was on fire, and he couldn't hold her. She wiggled out of his grasp and stood, and knowing he better not let her keep stomping and kicking him, he got up, too, but it hurt like hell. Now desperate, he finally accepted her invitation to punch her in the stomach, albeit belatedly, and for what good it did. She emitted a short “Oof,” then got a mean look on her face, a real mean look that scared him, making him think she was one of them little gals in horror movies where devils possess kids. Then she kicked him in the nuts again, then the chest, so hard he thought that little bare foot was gonna go all the way into his chest cavity so she could rip out his heart with her toes. He had no doubt she'd do that if she could, and before she was through with him, who knows? She just might.

He told her to “Stop this shit, I've had enough.” Pete thought she might of cracked a rib, she'd kicked him so hard in the chest, over on the side. Still, he grabbed her by the hips and threw her down, then tried again to pin her, a little more successfully this time, but not for long.

His face was bleeding real bad, and he hadn't sat up far enough on her, so she was able to get her little legs, her pretty little legs around him, and then she flexed those muscles that weren't that big, but they sure were strong. She got her arms around his neck like she was giving him a hug, but it wasn't what you'd think. It was worse, a lot worse, as she choked him with her arms and her legs, not just one set of limbs or the other, and that rib she broke, it was hurting real bad, so damn bad, and and he found it hard to breathe, but he still could a little bit. But it hurt. Lord, how it hurt.

She held him like that for about a minute before he was able to struggle to his feet, somehow, with his knee hurting like hell, and when he did, he got a running start, limping but still moving pretty fast considering, it must have been pure adrenaline, his knee hurt so bad, so damn bad, not to mention his chest from that bum rib, and hit the wall, or actually he hit the wall with the little girl between him and the wall, as she still had her arms and legs around him and damn, she was strong, especially for a little girl, but for anybody, really. When they hit, they both fell to the floor, and he just laid there and she did too, but he passed out again from all the pain, and when he woke up she had already got up and was nudging his face with her bare toes.

“Shit, I thought I'd have me some competition, you being a grown man and all, but you're more of a pussy wussy than the little boys,” she told him, hurting more than just his body this time.

She jumped on him again and started wrestling him some more. He kept telling her to stop, yelling at her to stop, saying, “You play too rough, I'm just a old man, you gotta go easy on me,” but she didn't. It just got worse, if possible, even worse. They rolled over and over, Pete landing on top, but he had forgot one thing, one very important thing, and he knew it but couldn't remember what it was.

Then she got those legs around his midsection again, and he said to himself, “Oh yeah, that,” and it looked like that was gonna be all she wrote for poor old Pete, if she didn't let him go.

They wrestled around some more, the man trying to get loose, but that little girl was so damn strong, she had him, and there didn't seem to be much he could do about it, except hit her in the face. Lord knows, he didn't want to do that, but what else could he do? The damn little banshee was gonna kill him, he thought, if he didn't do something. He could always deny it, say she was lying.

So he hit her in the face as hard as he could, then remembered SHIT, that other kids' filming it. That turned out to be the least of his worries, however, as she seemed stunned at first, then just smiled at him, still holding him with those pretty but strong little legs.

“Atta boy, fight me good,” she said, her grin spreading even wider across her face. “But if that's the best you got, you're up shit creek without a paddle.” So he hit her again, and she just kept smiling, then said, “Nope. That ain't good enough neither.” That's when he realized she was right. He was in some deep shit, and had no idea how to get out of it, unless he could break free and run for it. What he'd do once he got out of the house, he didn't know, but he'd figure something out.

Meanwhile, he kept wondering why she didn't seem to feel the punches. He'd pulled the first one, just a little, but with the second one, he'd give it all he'd got, and she still just grinned at him. Then he remembered having heard about little gals like her, or not so much just little gals as people in general. They had some condition, congenital they called it, although what it had to do with genitals, he couldn't figure out, but right now it didn't seem to matter none. They didn't feel pain, which was bad, 'cause this little girl could be runnin', playin' or in her case fightin', and break an arm or leg and not know it. Of course in fightin', it was worse news for the people she was beatin' up, 'cause she could keep going, hurtin' the other person, like, say him, even if she had a broken leg.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tightly to her, in what under other circumstances, especially if she were older, might have been considered a lover's embrace, but there was nothing loving about it. She crushed him with both sets of limbs. It hurt, and of course, he couldn't breathe. All he could do was wrestle her and try to break her powerful grip by punching her back, her legs, even the back of her head, since he couldn't reach her face as it her child was resting on his shoulder and was inaccessible to his fists. His situation was desperate. He was literally wrestling for his life against a barefooted eleven-year-old girl who was forcing the life from him, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it. Not a damn thing.

He finally decided to play possum, and just acted like he was passing out, something he had already done for real. That should do it. Then she'd let him go and he could get up and run. So he just closed his eyes and let his head fall on her chest, and she just laid there a few seconds while he waited for her to let him go. Didn't happen, though.

“You're faking,” she said. He'd said that to a woman once, under entirely different circumstances, of course, and the result was a slap in the face. With this little girl, it would probably be worse than a slap, even though she was the one that said it.

“OK,” she said, “I'll let you go, and we can start over, but you better fight me good this time, or else it's just gonna get worse for you.” She released him from that leg scissor, then shoved him away with her bare feet on his face as she got up.

He slowly got to his feet and responded to her wrestler's crouch with one of his own. He'd forgot about his busted knee till then, but it started hurting. Still, he'd just have to suck it up. They began circling each other, and when his position was such that he was close to the side door in the kitchen, the one where they'd come into his house what seemed like about two days ago, he stepped forward and thrust his hands at her, putting them on her little undeveloped chest, pushing her down, not hitting her, just pushing her, then turned and ran as fast as he could, which wasn't as fast as he would have hoped, with his sore knee. But he had to get away from her, so he figured he'd worry about that later.

“Oh no you don't,” she said, getting up more quickly than he'd hoped. “I'm not finished with you. Not by a long shot.” He heard the soft scuffling of her bare feet behind him, then looked over his shoulder and saw how close she was to catching him.

He got to the door and about five steps outside before she caught him. Little bitch was as fast as she was strong, although his bum knee didn't help matters much. She caught him by the shirt tail, which he had just started trying to tuck in when she and the other little girl came knocking on his door, and dug in her heels, easily stopping him, then she reached up and threw one arm around his neck, trapping him in a headlock, then used her other hand to pull his hair, turning him around and slowly dragging him back toward the house.

Damn the little bitch was strong. He had to outweigh her by at least 100 pounds, but she manhandled him like he was her little brother who she liked to beat up when her parents weren't around, or probably more like them neighborhood boys who she was beating up on them videos, and he remembered some of 'em, most of
'em in fact, were bigger than she was, although not as big as him.

Speaking of them other boys, that other little girl, Brittany, who he decided was her toady in a way, had run outside to film it, obviously wanting to get every bit of his humiliation for them to watch later while sipping on a juice box. She was stepping lightly on the grass, as she didn't stop to put on her flip flops. He figured she wasn't as used to going barefooted outside as the other gal, who had feet probably tougher than any shoe leather he had in his closet.

Just when she had him about two feet from the door, he seen Fred and Eileen Johnson, a couple in their 50s, taking their daily walk as the sun was going down. He never could remember her name was Eileen and instead remembered it as Ethel, so he called them Fred and Ethel Mertz, after the couple on that old TV show I Love Lucy that was so popular when he was a kid. His family didn't have a TV, but he sometimes saw it at Bobby Lawrences's house when his parents let him visit, which wasn't often, cause Bobby'd dad was a drinker. Also, he'd seen the show a thousand times in reruns till he got sick of it. Anyway, whether they knew he was mistaken about her name or not, they didn't see the humor in it, as they didn't have much wit about them, which was why he didn't like 'em much.

He swallowed what little was left of his pride and called out, “Help. Please, call the cops. I can't get these little girls out of my house. Seriously, this ain't no joke, please call the cops. Tell 'em to bring a taser. On second thought, make that two tasers, 'cause this little gal's stronger than an ox.”

Instead of trying to shut him up by putting her hand over his mouth, she just laughed and called out, “He's just kidding. We're only playin'.” Turning her attention back to Pete, she said, “Now get your butt back in that house and help us change that baby doll's diapers like a good daddy.”

“She's lyin',” Pete called out desperately. “Please. Call the police. Help!” Fred and Ethel said nothing, just stopped and stared. They were still staring when she dragged him back across the threshold and slammed the door.

“What the hell was that all about?” Ethel, or rather Eileen, asked Fred.

“How the hell should I know,” Fred answered. “I always said the guy was a nut.” Looking back at the door where the two little girls and Pete had just gone inside, he added, “Apparently he's a prevert, too.”

Several days later, after what happened just a few moments later, they had forgotten all about it, until Eileen recalled it the next day after their neighbors, the Newberrys, had told them and they saw it on the news. Even then, they weren't sure what day it was. They decided it had to be the day before, certainly not the same day. If it had been the same day, whoever did it might have done something bad to those little girls, too, unless the girls had just left the house before it happened.

Meanwhile, back in Pete's house, little Ana went back to work on Pete. It was bad. She started hitting and kicking him again, knocking him to the floor. He got up and limped into the living room, but of course she caught up with him and took him down like a linebacker, jumping forward and wrapping her arms around his legs and taking him down, once again hurting that knee, she just kept making it worse. He landed on his nose, which was probably broken by then, and even though the floor in the living room was carpeted, it still hurt like hell.

He rolled over onto his back and she started crawling up his body, straddling his chest and punching him in his face, causing even more pain to shoot up from his nose into his head. He almost passed out again. She grabbed his hair and rolled, slipping her legs around his chest and crushing him. This time he did pass out, as his cracked rib hurt like hell, especially as she was squeezing him with those little legs that were no longer pretty to him, no longer pretty at all, not even a little bit.

After a few moments, he did pass out, and when he came to, she was sitting on the floor facing him. Brittany, who was still standing behind her and still filming everything, said, “Ana, please stop. You proved your point. You can beat up a grown man. You've hurt him enough, please stop. You're gonna get in real bad trouble for this one.” Still, she didn't put down that damn camera, just kept filming.

“Nuh uh,” Ana responded. “I ain't finished with him.”

“Well what more you wanna do to him? Kill him?” Brittany asked. Ana just slowly turned and looked at her, then turned back and looked at Pete. That little gleam in her eye that had started kinda scaring him was gone, but it didn't help none. Now she scared him more than ever.

They stared at each other for what seemed like forever to him, the mean little girl and the man who was so scared he thought he was going to shit in his pants. Finally, he said, “Please...Please stop.” He felt the tears coming to his eyes, something that had happened more than once because of the pain, but this time it was something more. It was fear, the most fear he had felt since he was a kid and that mean old Chow dog that belonged to the Wilsons down the street took after him on his bike and almost caught him before he got to the driveway of their house, and his dad came out with a BB gun he kept by the door for neighborhood dogs and popped the Chow dog in the face, taking out one of that mean old dog's eyeballs.

It was also sorrow and humiliation, not just for getting his ass whupped by a little old barefooted gal who probably hadn't even lost all her baby teeth yet, or maybe she had, he didn't know, but she was still a little gal. No, he was lower than a rattlesnake's belly in a wagon rut because he had let her in, thinking that maybe rasslin' with a little gal would make him feel less lonely. No, that wasn't even it, he thought it would make him feel good in a way that made him a little ashamed at the time, but not enough to say no, and not nearly as much ashamed as he was now.

“Please...I got some money I'll give you,” he said, taking out his wallet. He pulled out 27.00, thinking he'd need to go by the ATM on his way to Walmart, or maybe just use his debit card, enough though he still liked to carry cash, as he didn't like to fool with those machines at the stores, never could remember if he was supposed to slide the card or just push the card in and wait. Then he realized that even if the little girl went away and left him alone right now this minute, he'd probably have to go to the emergency room, as she had hurt him bad, real bad.

The little girl took his money and stuck it in the pocket of her jeans, the other pocket, not the one she kept her phone in. “What else you got?” she asked, with no trace of emotion in her voice.

“I got some cookies,” he said, feeling more dirty than ever, like an old man trying to give a little kid some candy and a ride in his car. Didn't seem to matter, as the little girl just kept staring at him. “Chocolate chip,” he said, hoping like hell she liked chocolate chip, 'cause it's all he had. He loved Chips Ahoy cookies. They'd been his favorites since he was a kid. For years he'd bought the store brands, and some of them were pretty good, but not as good, more crumbly and not moist like Chips Ahoy. He didn't like crumbly cookies or the ones that crunched, like Famous Amos. Crackers were supposed to crunch, not cookies.

Didn't seem to matter to her. She just kept staring at him, and he was getting more scared every second, and that damned little bitch behind her just let the camera roll, but he noticed her hands were shaking, just a little, but still...

“Look,” he said to the girl with the camera, the one with the dainty little feet. “Tell your friend how much trouble she can get into for this. I don't think she understands.”

“I tried,” the little girl said, and it looked like she was about to cry too, but Ana just kept staring, no emotion at all, like she didn't have any more feeling than a rock. He believe by now that's just how much feelings for other people she had, like a rock. Like that Bob Seger song, although he thought the song had a different meaning.

“Look,” he said, once again talking to the mean one. “You done hurt me pretty bad, something really awful. So much so's I'm gonna have to go to the hospital, and when I do, they're gonna want to know what happened, and I'm gonna have to tell 'em, and they're gonna have to call the cops, and I'm gonna have to tell them, too.”

He'd already thought about that, and wondered what the fuck he was gonna tell them. A little girl beat me up? Yeah, right, they'd believe that. He thought about maybe blaming it on somebody else, like those young colored boys whose families had just moved in down the street, making all the other folks in the neighborhood mad, talking about their property values going down, when that ain't the issue, and they all knew it. Their property hadn't been worth shit in years, and most of 'em weren't planning on selling their houses and moving anytime soon, at least not until now that they thought the coloreds was moving in and taking over.

Anyway, the boys were probably between 13 and 16, and he could blame it on them, say they did it, but that wouldn't be right. They seemed like nice enough boys, asked him if they could cut his grass, and he said yeah, but not till he got his Social Security on the 19th. It came in on the third Wednesday of the month, every month. But it wasn't right, and besides, their fingerprints wouldn't be all over the house anyway, it would be these girls, these evil little girls, and not just their fingerprints but their footprints, their pretty little bare footprints. Even strands of their hair would be all over the place.

At that point, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't have said anything about going to the hospital. Maybe he shouldn't have said that, but why not? Maybe that would scare her. Except if she thought he was gonna go anyway... He figured he might better rethink that.

“Of course, I could tell them it was somebody else,” he said. “I could do that, you know, but only if you leave now. I won't tell them nothing, but only if you leave now.” The child said nothing, just kept staring at him.

“Actually, it ain't that bad yet. It ain't so bad. But...but if it gets any worse, if you was to keep hurtin' me...Well, then I'd pretty much have to go, maybe even call the EMTs, and there'd be sirens from police cars, and EMTs, and the cops'd be asking me what happened, and who it was...and....and...You see what I'm sayin', don't you? We don't need to let this go any further. So if you'd just leave now, everything will be all right...I promise...Just go...Please...” He started crying again, not softly this time, but weeping, weeping and sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks and onto the floor.

The little girl continued looking at him and then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “I can't leave yet. You'd tell them. You'd tell them everything, and I can't allow that. I have to finish with you, get rid of you, so you won't tell.”

Pete broke down and cried harder than he'd ever cried before. He started thinking the unthinkable, that this little girl, young and cute though she was, was gonna kill him, and there was not a damn thing he could do to stop her, not a goddamn thing.


To be continued...

Last edited by dirksneath; 27-Sep-18 at 20:29.
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Old 27-Sep-18, 16:38
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

There's something about the protagonist in this one that makes me not really care about his well being. I think part of it is because he seems to take a lot of the "old man" stereotypes too far to even see him as a person anymore. Other than that this story is good. My favorite still though is return of the little serial killers because I enjoy seeing what these girls are capable of when going home against fit, strong, healthy men and still coming out on top.
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Old 27-Sep-18, 16:53
dirksneath dirksneath is offline
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Thanks for the comment about the protagonist. I didn't want to make him someone readers would care too much about, which is why I asked at the end of segment 2 how people felt about him. I also didn't want to make him out to be a stereotypical dirty old man, however, so I tried to make him a little bit pathetic, but let's face it. He wouldn't have agreed to let this little girl in unless he thought he was gonna have a little not so innocent fun. He may imply he doesn't want anything blatantly sexual, but that's because he realizes it's being filmed. Not sure he'd be real comfortable with it if it wasn't being filmed, but if this was all playful, he'd be having the time of his life, and without the camera, who knows? Maybe he'd tell her it's too hot for those clothes, take 'em off, little girl, take 'em off. It will be interesting to see if anyone really feels sympathy for the old man.

As for the little serial killers, they're my favorites, too. I love the idea of two guys who may or not be likable - for the most part, I don't try to develop their characters much at all - just sitting around watching a ball game one minute and fighting for their lives against two incredibly strong young girls the next, two girls who make it clear that they plan to kill them, for no reason other than just 'cause, and there's nothing they can do to stop them. They just go about the business of killing them with their bare hands, feet and legs. At this point, part 3 of their saga is my choice for the next story, and I'll probably have them go after three men instead of two, tying up two and making them watch them take turns destroying the first man, then untying one of the others and killing him, and finally the third, who gets the special treatment, as they really go all out: telling him they plan to spend all night killing him, toying with him, turning him lose and chasing him down after counting to ten. Then maybe they make him drive them somewhere, telling him all the things they're going to do to him, then maybe dragging him into a lake and eventually drowning him. Whatever I decide, it will likely be all night torture for that one, their most heinous crime yet.

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Old 28-Sep-18, 02:26
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Part 3

He cried out and tried to rise, but the little girl took him down, hands on his shoulders as she jumped on him, and went back to wrestling him, as the other little girl, hands still trembling as she also seemed to be in shock, filmed it. Ana ended up on his chest and rolled him, but he fought her, as he knew by now she wanted to get those legs around him, those little legs that weren't pretty any more. He fought, but he couldn't fight hard enough, not just because she was so damn strong, although that was part of it, but because he was so damn hurt, in so much pain. She got her legs around his neck again, facing him as she kept looking into his eyes, and that's when he knew she didn't have a soul, she was like one of them Satan dolls in a scary movie, she had doll's eyes, like the shark in them Jaws movies, and she was just as dangerous, just as deadly.

She held him like that for several minutes, then shifted his head around facing the other way so he was looking down at her feet, her little feet that also weren't so pretty any more, although they never had been as pretty as the other little girl's feet, the one who was still videoing the damn thing. The reason she adjusted his head so he was looking the other way was so she could get him in a figure four neck scissor. She could have done that the other way, but this way she could bend her knee and put the calf of her bare leg up to his throat, not his neck, and choke him better that way. He had watched enough wrestling to know that.

She bent her leg at the knee and did just that, grabbing one bare foot so she could pull back on it for maximum pressure on his throat and not have to worry so much about taking a break and catching her breath. She could exert all the strength she needed, as long as her leg didn't cramp up, and as young and active as she was, she probably didn't have to worry about that. He knew that's why she was doing it this way, so she wouldn't have to relax and let him take a breath, because...because she was gonna kill him, and didn't want him to take a breath. She wanted to be able to breathe without taking a break, but didn't want him to breathe. That's why she was doing it that way.

And it was working. Not only did it hurt like hell, having that hard little lower leg muscle of hers pressed up against his Adam's apple, but he couldn't breathe, and wouldn't breathe again unless she decided to have mercy on him, which he knew wasn't gonna happen. The only thing that might save him was if that other little girl stopped her, and she wasn't strong enough, he knew that from looking at her, and she was scared of the girl, too, maybe not as scared as he was, but she was too scared to do anything, unless she ran for help, and even if she did that, it would probably be too late for him.

Early in the fight, he could have got up, dragging her with him if he had too, and maybe got her to turn him lose then, but not now, it was too late. He was hurting too bad, especially his chest and broken rib, and his busted knee, both of which she had destroyed with her feet, her damned old bare feet. Not only was he hurting like hell, but he was exhausted. He was 67 years old and hadn't been real active since he retired, and not even much before then, except for work, which required a lot of physical activity, but probably not enough to help him in a situation like this.

He tried to grab her foot, the one she was pulling back on to put so much pressure on his damn throat, but she grabbed his hand with her other hand, and they struggled for a minute, but even when he was able to shake his hand lose and grab her foot, it didn't do him any good. She held on and kept pulling back on it, harder than ever, to show him he wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough to stop her from killing him.

She was gonna kill him. She WANTED to kill him. No matter how many times he formed those words in his mind, he just couldn't believe it, couldn't get his head around it, but old Pete knew it was true. The little girl may not have set out to kill him, she'd probably never killed anybody before, but had decided she was going to kill him, he knew it, knew that's what she wanted to do now. He was moving from what them counselors in that treatment program called denial, but still had trouble getting to what they called “acceptance.”

She had her other leg bent enough so that her other foot was in his reach, so he grabbed it. Since she was barefooted, he used both his hands to stretch her toes, her dirty little toes from not ever wearing shoes, he wondered if she even had any, except for school, which was out for the summer. He pulled her toes this way and that, every which way, but she just ignored it like she didn't even feel it, because she didn't. The little girl was a freak, not just because of her strength, which was as insane as her brain, but because she didn't feel pain. That Goddamn congenital condition was the problem, that and the fact that she was stronger than that Samson character in the Bible, the Bible he never believed in, but was beginning to wonder if maybe he should, if it wasn't too late.

He was so desperate, he let go of her toes, but not completely. Instead of stretching and pulling on them, he started tickling them, not just her toes, although that's were he started, but the bottoms of her feet, too, neither one of which did any good, as her feet probably didn't respond to tickles any more than they responded to pain. She wasn't ticklish, and just didn't feel it, except enough to know someone was messin' with them, and probably wouldn't feel it anyway, as tough as her feet were. He could see the bottoms of both her feet, which were dirty, except for the softer skin of her instep, or her arch, whatever it was called, but the other parts were rusty callouses from going barefooted so much.

The poor old man flopped around like a fish out of water, figuring maybe that's why fish flop like they do, because they can't breathe, either. In further desperation, he punched and pulled at her legs

That's all he could think of to do, except prayer, something he hadn't done seriously since he was a child, and not even then, really, and not even when he was in alcohol treatment, 'cause he just didn't think there was a god, or if there was, he didn't answer prayers. Never had answered any of his, but maybe that was because he didn't believe, so now he tried, he tried real hard to believe, and to pray a serious prayer.

God, he said to himself, and maybe to god, if he was truly there and really listening. Please, I know this sounds silly, since it's an eleven-year-old girl I'm talking about, but please, save me. She's trying to kill me, and damned – I mean, darned if she ain't doing a good job of it. I don't know if she really knows what she's doing or not, but it don't matter to me, the end result is the same, or will be if you don't stop her. Please, I don't know how you handle such things, I mean, I wouldn't want you to strike her dead, but maybe if you could just get her to stop, to realize what she's doing is wrong...

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a soft voice, like his little sister, but it couldn't have been her, because she died in a car wreck a few years ago, when she was forty-five. It was the other little girl, saying something, like “Stop, please stop, you're killing him...” Then she stopped, or else he just couldn't hear her anymore.

He stopped praying, not because he decided it wasn't working, but because he was starting to feel woozy. He brain just stopped working, not all at once but kind of gradual like. His head hurt like hell, like someone was pumping air into his brain and that before long it was gonna bust just like a balloon. He could feel and hear himself making a sound in his throat, sort of a gasping noise and sensation. The light from the lamp on the end table next to the sofa started growing dim, which was unusual, as they usually go out all at once, so he'd have to pick up some light bulbs at Walmart, but then he realized there wasn't a problem with the light bulb, and he wasn't gonna be buying any light bulbs, or drain cleaner or new overalls at Walmart or anywhere else.

It was the room growing dark, and he knew then he'd never make it to Walmart, or the ATM, or the emergency room, because...and that's the last thing he thought, except for silly things from his childhood, like the time he saw his daddy run into the pond where they were having a picnic to save his little sister, when she was about 10, as she had gone into the water too soon after eating, and...

The evil little girl throttled him with her legs a few more seconds, until she was sure he was dead. Then when she stopped and released him, kicking his head away with her bare feet. Brittany started crying and didn't stop until Ana slapped her. She hurriedly ran around, trying to remember what she was supposed to do, what did murderers in the movies and TV shows do? They wiped everything down with a handkerchief, but she didn't have a handkerchief. She searched Pete's pockets and didn't find one, so she grabbed some paper towels in the kitchen, gave some to Brittany, and told her to turn off that damned camera and start wiping stuff down, everything they had touched, like the door, the table around the PC, and...and what else? She couldn't think, so she just stared wiping the walls and even the floor. She then realized her footprints were all over the floor, and Brittany's, too, since she had taken off her flip-flops, and she'd have to wipe them off the floor, except she was making more footprints as she did it, so it wasn't really doing any good, but still, she kept wiping.

After a few more minutes, they left. She almost slapped Brittany again, because she had looked back and saw the man lying on the floor and started crying again. When they finally left the house, she almost reached up and turned off the light switch, because Mama had always told her to turn the light off when leaving a room, because it would save electricity, but she thought, who the fuck cares? Nobody's gonna be worried about a dead man's light bill. She started out the door, then turned back and threw the paper towels in the trash can, which she found under the kitchen sink, then realized she'd need to wipe off the cabinet door, the kitchen door. Fuck it, she said, and took a couple of more paper towels, wiped the new spots and closed the door, careful to use a paper towel for that, then threw it on the ground.

They ran across the street, realizing suddenly that it was almost dark, and were half a block down the street when Brittany stepped on a small stone on the sidewalk. “Oh, shit,” she said, lifting her food and brushing it off.

Ana, who wasn't used to hearing her friend curse, hadn't seen what she had stepped on, but knew it was something, so she said, “If you went barefooted more often, you wouldn't have to worry about...” She stopped, and both girls looked at each other and said “SHIT” at the same time.

“Where are your goddamned flip flops?” Ana asked.

“I forgot 'em,” she said.

“Well you have to go back and get 'em,” she said.

“I'm not going back in that house!” she half whispered, half screamed.

“OK, I'll go back and get 'em,” Ana sighed.

“NO, don't leave me here,” Brittany said, terrified at the prospect of being alone after what she had just witnessed, even though the killer was the person who was leaving her. Made no sense to Ana.

“Well then you're gonna have to go with me, but we've got to get 'em, 'cause those are incrimnima...incremint...they're evidence that we were there when it happened,” she said.

“Of course we were there. You killed him, remember?” she said.

Ana rolled her eyes. She was often amazed that a person who understood technology as well as Brittany, someone who could figure out what was wrong with an iPhone that would have cost a lot of money to return to Apple to be repaired and fix it herself, could be so stupid sometimes.

“OK, we'll both go, and you can stay outside while I go in and get them,” Ana finally responded.

They did, although Brittany didn't want to be left alone outside and went just inside the door, refusing to look toward the living room, not so much because she was afraid of seeing the dead man, although there was that, too, but because she was afraid of not seeing him, which could mean only one thing. Unfortunately for Ana, she did look that way, just as she reached down to pick up her bestie's flip flops, not because she meant to, but still, she couldn't help but see. She froze. The man was gone.

She heard a moan, and then a voice coming from the living room, on the other side from where she'd killed him, or where she meant to kill him: “Who's there?” the voice asked. He was apparently on the sofa, which was on that side of the room, and had heard them come in.

Pete Rayburn had recovered right after the girls left, just as they were closing the door. He had lain on the floor for a few minutes, then went to sit on the sofa, intending to call 9-1-1. However, he decided to lie down first, until his head stopped spinning, and hopefully until it stopped hurting so damn much. But that hadn't happened, at least not before he fell halfway asleep, his mind still working and trying to process what had happened, or at least half his brain tried to process it while the other half tried to suppress it. Now there was a noise, and he was fully awake, though still a little out of it and still in pain like he'd never known before.

Brittany, hearing the man, screamed and ran out of the house, barefoot all the way home, while Ana stayed behind. She knew what she heard was not a ghost, as she didn't believe in such childish shit, and she also knew there was no one else in the house, or if there was, he had just come in, otherwise, why hadn't he shown his face during the fight? Plus, that Pete fellow was no longer on the floor, so if it was someone else, whoever it was had moved the body, which you're not supposed to do. There hadn't been enough time for the EMTs to come and take him to the hospital, and besides, she hadn't seen the ambulance or heard the sirens. So it had to be Pete, and Ana realized she had to finish the job.

She should rush in, take him by surprise, and finish him, but she couldn't. It was like some people couldn't just jump into cold water, even though it'd be easier that way. They have to get in a little at a time, starting with their toes, then their lower legs, etc, whereas others just do it, jumping in and getting it over with. Ana didn't mind jumping in cold water, it felt good to her, but this was different. She tip toed into the room, and when they saw each other, they both screamed.

“You!” the man exclaimed, “What the fuck are you doing back...” But he wasn't able to finish, because Ana was now running toward him, dropping the flip flops just as she got to him, and before he knew what hit him, she was jumping in his lap, pounding the shit out of him with her fists, punching his face and head, determined to finish the job, making sure he was dead this time.

The little girl grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off the sofa and onto his feet, wrapping her arms around him in a bear hug, one that didn't include his arms, as she wasn't sure her arms were long enough. She was able to lift him an inch or two off the floor and crush his stomach for about 30 seconds, hurting his busted rib so that he screamed, although it was more of a loud moan, as he couldn't breathe well enough to make a lot of sound.

She then tossed him to the floor and fell on him, quickly getting behind him and wrapping her legs around his neck like she did before, when she killed...or rather, when she tried to kill him. She got him in another figure four, but this time she wanted to do something else, as she didn't think she could take the chance on leaving him alive and didn't want to take the time to choke him to death anyway. Instead, the girl wanted to break his neck, so she'd be sure he was dead.

So she clenched his neck as hard as she could, then started twisting his head as far to one side as she could. He was facing away from her, but she wanted to turn his head far enough back that he could see her, that is, if his eyes were still open and he was still alive at that point. She wasn't sure how far she'd have to twist it for his neck to break, but she guessed she'd find out, and she'd know when it happened because she'd hear it, wouldn't she? If not, surely she'd feel it. She knew he'd feel it, but wouldn't be able to let her know, 'cause by then he'd be dead. Or would he feel it? Hell yeah, she thought, but as long as he died, it really didn't matter.

She wondered how long it would take to do this? It seemed to take hours to choke him to death, or to almost death, and she knew this wouldn't take as long, or she hoped it wouldn't. She was tired and ready to go home and watch Bunk'd, which she always set TiVo to record. While she was struggling with his neck, she suddenly realized Brittany wasn't there so the end of the fight, the REAL end of the fight wasn't being filmed. Oh, well. She wasn't sure it'd be a good idea to have this on video anyway, and might even need to delete the video of the rest of the fight, since she was gonna murder him and she figured a video of her doing it would be incriminating (that was the word) evidence. But she'd worry about that later.

The man had already thought this was one of the worst days of his life when he came to and found the little girls gone. Now he guessed this was pretty much gonna take the top spot, and there wouldn't likely be any other contenders, as this was gonna be it. He had felt more and more hopeless as the little girl just kept hurting him and even caught him when he tried to get away, and was so damn strong, dragged him back in the house.

That was when he knew it was over, when he not only couldn't get away, couldn't get Fred and Ethel to believe he was in need of help (why should they? He was a grown man and she was just a little girl, am I right? he asked himself). Then she actually dragged him back in the house, chased him across the kitchen and dining area, and tackled him. He had continued to fight her, but just gave up, as he saw it wasn't working.

And then he came to. He was in so much pain, and so exhausted, couldn't hardly move, but he had struggled to his feet and limped to the sofa. He had lived through it. He had survived the hardest fight of his life, and he had fought some damned hard fights, but this one was the worst by far, against a little girl, a goddamn barefooted little eleven-year-old girl. And now this. The damn little girl came back, probably for her little friend's flip flops, the girl who filmed the whole thing. He saw the flip-flops, but didn't think they'd come back for them, but that's what they did. And now he'd soon be dead, all for the want of a pair of goddamn flip flops.

Instead of the dramatic thoughts running through his mind a few moments earlier, when the child had tried to kill him the first time, thoughts of his childhood, his father, his sister, this time the thoughts were more inane things like, wondering if he would hear his neck break when the little girl finally succeeded, since it was obvious that breaking his neck was her chosen method of execution this time. He'd heard it said that a man never hears the gun shot that kills him, although how the hell does anyone know that? The last thing that occurred to him before she broke his neck – a sound he didn't hear, by the way – was that while this little girl was overall cuter than the one with the camera, the other girl had prettier feet. Suddenly, the lights went out again, and didn't come back on this time.

Ana knew he was dead this time, not just because of that snapping sound, but because his head and neck both suddenly went limp in her powerful grasp. The man's face was turned around at an impossible angle, reminding her of that girl in The Exorcist when the demon inside her made her head turn all the way around.

Ana was not interested in wiping away her fingerprints, footprints, or anything else in the way of evidence elimination. All she wanted to do was get out of there now, especially since she knew without looking that Brittany had run all the way home, and wasn't waiting for her just outside. It was completely dark by now, and she was going to be in trouble again. Nothing new, but nothing to look forward to, either. She was tired. This had been more trouble than she expected, so she ran all the way home, just as Brittany had done earlier, not realizing until she was there, listening to her mother yell “Where have you been, young lady?” that she'd forgotten the flip flops. Fuck the fucking flip flops.

Ana and her family had moved to the neighborhood three years ago, so Pete, who had never nearly known the girl until today, was right about his recollection as to how long she'd lived nearby. Her mother naively believed things would be better, as Ana was always getting into fights in the old neighborhood, not spats with her little girlfriends, but physical fights, nearly always with boys. Even though the evidence indicated she was always the aggressor, the one who started it, often for no reason, her mom believed otherwise. Ana's father, who was very passive with his wife, did not defend her as staunchly, but neither was he the strict disciplinarian the girl needed, as his wife would not permit it. He was the kind of passive wimp Ana hated and picked fights with. It's a wonder she never assaulted him, and at some point, it the authorities don't intervene and put her away somewhere, either in a juvenile facility, a mental hospital, or eventually jail and prison, she just might give him the beating he deserved. Pity she seldom attacked girls or women, as she might attack her mother, also.

Since they'd moved to Windover Street, a slightly better but still a plain old working class area, things had not changed. In face, they had deteriorated. The fights got worse, more violent, and the boys often had to be treated at the emergency room, and the police were called, and she now had restraining orders against her and would be sent off if she got into another fight with a boy for any reason. Fortunately, there had been no fights recently, no calls from the police. She seemed to have calmed down.

Of course there was still that Brittany girl she'd started hanging out with, Brittany Simpson. Ms Bentley had decided she was a bad influence, a little girl with a video camera she carried everywhere, one that nobody had ever seen with her until a few months ago when Ana had come up with the idea of filming the fights and uploading them to YouTube. Ms Bentley had tried to nip that relationship in the bud, but Ana, headstrong child that she was, had continued the relationship, and since the poor child didn't seem to have any other friends, her mother tolerated it. What other choice did she have, other than to realize the problem was her aggressive daughter and that she loved to fight, and heaven forbid that she should come to grips with that.

Ana was always looking for something that would take the beatings, which is what they were, not just fights, to a whole new level. The child had been blessed or cursed, depending on your point of view, with great strength, which was enhanced by involvement in activities such as gymnastics, swimming, and weight training, something Ms Bentley blamed on her husband, along with just about everything else.

She also didn't feel pain, so that when someone fought back, she just sneered and went back to work on them, punishing them even more severely for defending themselves. The well meaning fathers, most of whom would not have stood a chance against the little girl themselves, even when she was as young as nine or ten, told their sons to forget the fact that she was a girl and hit her back, but when they did, she just sneered and went back to work on the poor boys, punishing them even more for defending themselves.

Her congenital condition that prevented her from feeling pain meant that she would arrive at the ER with visible injuries, even a broken arm once after gymnastics, and yet not be in any pain. This all seemed to make her invincible, superhuman even, to her foes, or her victims, rather. They ran when they saw her coming, but unless they were close enough to their homes or some other haven, she nearly always caught them, as she was as fast as she was strong. The hairs on the backs of their necks stood up when they heard the light scuffling of her bare feet bringing her closer...closer...closer, so that all they could do was turn around and face the brutal assault and hope for a miracle, or else let her catch them and take them down, giving her an excuse to make the punishment for being in the wrong place at the wrong time even more severe, because they were too gutless to stand and fight her.

So the fights grew boring. She never lost, except on those rare occasions when she picked on a boy in his mid teens who was a football player, in which case, she may have lost, but the boy, who was just defending himself, usually came out of it with a black eye and/or a busted lip. In such cases, she would learn her lesson and remain aware of the few limitations she had. She was now only eleven. God knows what new levels she would reach in about ten years, if she could stay out of prison.

When she finally accepted the fact that she couldn't keep going after boys at school or in the neighborhood without consequences that were more dire than a few days restriction, she got the idea of going after old men. There were several of them who had lived on and around her street for years, since before she was born, when most of them had small children of their own. Now most of them had grandchildren who were grown with kids of their own. Ana knew, as she had beaten up a couple of them.

She chose Pete Rayburn, as he lived alone, as did most of the other older men. So she went after him first, giving up on the idea of finding some made up excuse to gain entry to the home. He was a friendly old man, seemed very talkative and lonely when she was around, always asking if she was hot and tired from playing outside, and would she like a glass of water or a Coke or something, and always wanted to know where her shoes were, why she always went barefoot. And as far as what she'd say when she knocked on the door, she'd just come right out and ask if he'd like to wrestle. She knew he'd say yes.


To be continued...
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Old 28-Sep-18, 11:41
dirksneath dirksneath is offline
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

For now, please disregard previous comment about sending out the rest of the story to people who are interested by private message. I'm not sure I can attach the story by PM and it's too long for a copy and paste, I'm sure. Also, I don't want to start asking for a lot of private email addresses, as I realize many will not feel comfortable with that. I will continue posting it for now.

I had started having second thoughts about it for reasons I won't go into. Still, at this point, unless there is some reason I can't continue, then I feel I'm committed to doing so. My apologies for any confusion.

Last edited by dirksneath; 28-Sep-18 at 11:54. Reason: Second thoughts
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Old 28-Sep-18, 13:32
WeaponZero WeaponZero is offline
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

I hope you do finish. Although I'm not enjoying it as much as I did the little serial killers stories, I still like it and am eager to see where it goes, also how the friend deals with the fact that she just realized she's in over her head just associating with the psycho.
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Old 28-Sep-18, 13:46
dirksneath dirksneath is offline
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Thanks. I plan to finish posting, as the story itself is finished, except for another proof read. No one seems to like the story as much as previous ones, myself included, and I decided that since it's not up to what I think to be my usual standards, I'd just send it to those who wanted it and stop posting future segments, but I don't think I could do that without obtaining private email addresses, which I'd rather not ask for, as I can't see a way to attach a large document to a private message.
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Old 29-Sep-18, 07:22
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Part 4


She wasn't sure why things got out of hand. It wasn't that he pissed her off as much as most of her victims did at some point in the fight. He hardly fought back at all, at least not much. He finally hit her a few times, but the punches were more like mosquito bites. She was the one who lost control, but that was nothing new, either. It just simply occurred to her during the slaughter, as she had come to think of it, that she realized she could kill this old turd and no one would miss him. And so she did. She loved it, at least until she returned to the home and found him still not dead. Then she killed him, not so much because she wanted to, but because she had to. Otherwise, he'd tell the cops, and since he was a grownup, she'd probably really get in trouble. Also, she had previously decided to kill him, so that's what she had to do. Simple as that.

No one knew old Pete was dead until several days later when the mailman, realizing he had not seen Pete in at least four days, decided to check on him. Pete seldom went anywhere except to the store and back, and more often than not waited out front for the mailman, even when he wasn't expecting anything. He was lonely and often wanted to chew the fat, and the mailman, though anxious to finish his route, usually accommodated him for a few minutes, unless he was running behind.

When he got to the side door, which was slightly open, the odor knocked him out. He had had a similar experience years ago when an older lady, to whom he delivered the mail, had a massive heart attack and lay dead on the floor of her kitchen for several days before he went to her door to see if she was all right. Once you've smelled the odor of a person who has been dead for several days, you recognize if right away. He called 9-1-1 and the police and EMTs were there in just a few minutes.

Neighbors came out of their homes when they heard the siren to see what was going on. Word quickly spread that it was Pete, but of course no one knew anything else at that point. Ana and Brittany had been in Brittany's house watching a new show on Nickelodeon that they both declared boring. They ran out when they heard the sirens and stood on the sidewalk, both barefoot, as Brittany had not yet been able to replace her one pair of flip flops and did not go to the trouble of putting on any shoes, and Ana, because she was Ana, and didn't wear shoes unless she had to. They stood there and watched silently, neither one saying anything, not even in whispered voices.

After a few minutes, they went back inside and continued watching TV. Then Ana said, “You know, I think I'll do Mr Salvati next.”

Paul Salvati lived on the same side of the street as Pete, but about a block over. He was generally known as a recluse, a man who was not friendly at all and who yelled at kids if they so much as put a big toe in his yard.

“Why him?” Brittany had asked. She had calmed down considerably since the other night, and though she hadn't anticipated her friend wanting to beat up another old man after the other night, she wasn't surprised and didn't advise against it. She also knew without asking that Ana would kill this man, too, or at least she would try. Ana had not asked to see the video of her killing Pete, or trying to kill him, but she did later. Brittany had no problem showing her, and no difficulty watching it, either. She always normalized the uptick in violent behavior by her friend and seldom criticized her for it.

“Well, he lives alone. He's mean, but not as big as Pete, so I know I could take him,” she answered. Ana, like most people in the neighborhood, called Pete “Pete” and Mr Salvati “Mr Salvati.” This tendency was based on how approachable, or friendly, people were. If they were nice, they were referred to by their first names, even with children, and if they weren't they were referred to more formerly.

“He won't let you in,” Brittany commented.

“I know that, but I can force my way in,” she answered. “He'll open the door, and when he tries to close it, I'll push my way inside. That'll give me an idea of how strong he is, but I'm sure I'm stronger.”

“Just don't let it take so long,” Brittany responded. “I have to recharge that battery a lot, and I'm afraid if it takes too long, the battery will die.”

“Just get a new camera,” Ana proposed, thinking it was as simple as that for everyone. With her parents, they usually complained, but usually got around to giving her what she wanted anyway.

“Not as simple as that,” Brittany said. She knew by now that Ana thought what she could do, anybody should be able to do, except for beating up boys, and now grown men. Brittany's parents barely allowed her to use the camera anymore, and had told her to never film anymore fights for “that Bentley girl,” as Brittany's mother called her. Brittany had told her she wouldn't, but her mother, for some reason, never told her to stop taking the camera with her when she went anywhere with Ana. She knew Brittany loved that camera, and was always taking videos of butterflies and birds and things, and just naively assumed she wouldn't continue to use it for Ana's fights.

“Anyway,” Ana continued, “ I figure once we get inside, I'll jump on him right away and go to work on him. Shouldn't take me long. He's skinnier, so I'll probably use a body scissor on him after I've spent a few minutes beating and kicking the shit out of him, then just to be sure, I'll break his neck, like with Pete.”

“You broke Pete's neck?” Brittany asked.

“Yeah,” Ana said, incredulous at her friend's ignorance. “Don't you remember?
Oh, that's right, you weren't there when I finally finished him off.” She mentioned it as casually as she would have while talking about something she did at a party after Brittany had left early.

“Why waist time with a body scissor if you're gonna break his neck?” Brittany asked.

Ana rolled her eyes and patiently explained, “Cause like I've told you before and you should know by now, my favorite thing to do once I start wrestling 'em is to get my legs around 'em and choke 'em, so they can't breathe. I love the looks on their faces. Don't matter how much you hurt 'em, ain't nothing like the way they look when they can't breathe. That's the scariest thing in the world, and I want 'em to be as scared as possible.”

“Then why not just choke him to death with your legs, if you gotta kill 'em?” Brittany asked, still not getting it.

Ana rolled her eyes again and said, “Because, I tried that the other day, and remember what happened? Duh. Hello! I guess I could take their pulses, but I'm not sure I know how to do that. I think people have pulses in their fingers or something, so if I feel a pulse, it might be my own. Plus, I might not be feeling in just the right place. I guess I could Google it or something, but I figure it's easier to just break the neck, that way you know for sure they're dead.”

“Oh,” Brittany said, like her bestie had just explained why she wore one shirt for one thing and another for something else. They had never had a casual conversation about how to kill people, but it suddenly seemed as normal has having a discussion about why fruit punch juice boxes are better than apple ones.

They waited until the next day, as Brittany said it was too hot that day, as by the time they had started talking about it, the the temperature was up in the 90s. They walked across the street with the video camera at 10:30 am, before it got so hot. Neither girl's parents said anything about them going anywhere, despite the fact that word had gotten out that Pete Rayburn had not collapsed from a heart attack or stroke, but that he'd been beaten to death. Murdered! Neither set of parents really care much about what their little girls did or what happened to them. If anything happened to Brittany, it would be that Bentley girl's fault, and if anything happened to Ana, her mom could easily blame someone other than herself. As long as there were scapegoats handy, they didn't care.

Brittany was dressed similarly to the way she had been the afternoon they went to Pete's house: white gym shorts with a blue stripe running down the hips, tee shirt instead of tank top, and scruffy sneakers with no socks. Ana wore a bright pink gymnastics leotard and nothing else. Like her friend, Ana's hair was in a ponytail. As always, she was completely barefoot. They knocked on the door.

When Mr Salvati answered the door, he frowned, looked Ana over from her head to her toes, and said, “Where are your clothes, little girl?”

She said, “ I didn't feel like puttin' em on. Too hot.”

Mr Salvati was smaller than Pete, a wiry little man with male pattern baldness, although the hair he had left was a couple of inches long. Within the next few minutes, he would wish he had had it cut short, as her learned it was just long enough for an attacker to grab while beating the shit out of him. He wore small glasses that rested just below the bridge of his nose. The look on his face was usually a scowl, as it he were mad at the world.

Mr Salvati worked in his yard a lot and had a vegetable garden in back, so he'd seen the girls many times, always together. With her sandy blonde hair, Ana somehow reminded him of Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts comic strip, and her little tag along friend was like Marcie, the little girl with glasses when seemed to be Peppermint Patty's shadow, and called her “Sir.” This girl didn't have glasses, and as far as he knew, didn't call the other girl “Sir,” and as far as that goes, Ana didn't really look much like Peppermint Patty when you got right down to it. That girl in the comics always wore sandals, and this little girl never wore sandals or anything on her feet, she was always barefoot, but that's who they reminded him of.

“Don't you know there's a killer running around loose?” he asked, as though a killer who had just beaten a man to death would automatically be interested in a little girl wearing nothing but a skimpy swim suit or leotard, but not her little friend who was closer to being fully dressed.

“Yeah,” she answered, “but that man was killed inside his house, so seems to me like I'd probably be safer outside my house.”

“Hmph,” Mr Salvati said, thinking to himself that she was a little smartass. Then he asked “What do you want?” in a very gruff voice.

“I wanna wrestle you and let Brittany film it so we can upload it to YouTube,” she responded, in a voice about the same as she would have used if she had said she was selling boxes of candy for some organization. Like it was something kids did all the time.

“I know you,” the old man said. “You're that little girl always getting in trouble for beating up boys. Shame on you. And now you wanna beat me up and put it on what?”

“YouTube,” she responded. “That's where people put videos, all kinds of videos of stuff they do. And I don't wanna beat you up exactly, just wrestle you, like they do on TV.”

“Yeah, I seen that shit on TV. Fake. All of it fake, and if you try it for real, you end up getting hurt or hurting somebody else. Go away,” he said, and closed the door.

Or rather, he tried to close it. Ana anticipated that and caught the door when it was about three inches away from closing. The man pushed as hard as he could, not because he was afraid, no reason to be, they were just little girls, but because he didn't want any kids bugging him, and he certainly didn't want them coming into his house, especially that one in the pink swimsuit, or whatever she called it, with her dirty bare feet.

Keeping the girls out was harder than he thought, a lot harder. That little Marcie girl, or whatever her name was, she was just standing there filming already, not helping push the door, but that little Ana, she was strong enough to keep him from shutting that door. After a few seconds he noticed the door finally starting to move, but it was moving the wrong way, dammit. Instead of him pushing it closed, she was pushing it further open, just a quarter of an inch at a time, but still. Damn that little girl was strong.

Mr Salvati wore an old pair of brown Florsheim work shoes with soles that were just about worn completely out, and they were slipping and sliding on the cheap carpet in the living room, which was also worn out, whereas that little girl, the mean one, was barefooted as a yard dog, and her little feet seemed like they were glued to the little concrete porch that used to have a welcome mat years ago, but it had slid off the side of the porch and was now covered with mold and lying in a small puddle of water next to the porch.

One of her feet was flat on the porch, and she was up on the ball of her other foot, her little toes splayed out a little on the cement like the claws of a predator cat, and she was grunting as she struggled to get that door open so she could do what? Wrestle with him? This was ludicrous, and he was gonna call the juvenile cops on her. Anyway, that's why she was winning, because she was barefooted and those callouses on the bottoms were like suction cups to the concrete. He noticed the other little girl videoing her feet, showing how they stuck to the porch so that she could more easily push the door open. Brittany had learned to think of stuff like that and get it on video when possible.

Mr Salvati had a point. The girl's leverage gave her an advantage in this test of strength, which soothed the man's slightly bruised adult male ego. However, he was thus far in denial about the girl's incredible strength. He once saw the girl beating up a neighborhood boy who was probably a couple of years older and a little bigger, and he had seen the boy finally fight back, hitting her in the face and knocking her down, but she had just gotten back up and jumped on him, taking him down and getting those strong little legs around his neck, then started punching his face till he cried, then got up and put one of those dirty feet on his face and rubbed it till he cried some more. Mr Salvati was about to call the police as it didn't look like the girl was gonna let him go any time soon, but then he saw the patrol car drive up and the officers get out to deal with the situation, so he went back to work in his yard.

So he knew she was strong, but it didn't occur to him she could be strong enough to force her way into his house, but damned if she wasn't doing just that. By now the door was open about eight or nine inches, and a few seconds after that, she shifted her position and started sliding in sideways, slowly but surely.

Then she smiled at him and said, “Gonna getcha, Mr Salvati. Gonna getcha good, and there ain't nothing you can do to stop me.”

He realized she was gonna get him, all right, if he didn't do something, because she was coming in that door whether he liked it or not. So he gave up the fight to keep her out, and headed for his landline phone on the end table next to the sofa. He had never bought one of those newfangled cell phones, or smartphones as they called them now, probably because they were smarter than the people who used them, because they were about as smart as a clump of dirt from his garden, all these darned kids walking down the street, or driving their cars and not looking where they were going because they were looking at their phones.

However, as soon as he picked up the handset, the girl was on his back, forcing him face down onto the sofa, trying to grab the phone away from him. The man raised himself up and they tussled for control of the phone, each one with both hands on it. The girl let go with one hand long enough to smash her fist into the back of his head, stunning him enough so that he dropped the handset. She grabbed it and the base of the phone, giving it a strong jerk, then grabbed the cord and jerked it twice until it snapped lose of the base. She then took the base and threw it and the handset across the room, where it landed in a corner, useless for the duration of the fight.

Ana looked at Brittany, who had rushed in right behind her, to make sure she was still filming. She was, and once inside, she pushed off one sneaker with the toe of the other, then pulled the other sneaker of with the big toe of her other foot, then nudged the shoes in front of the door so she wouldn't forget them like she had forgotten her flip flops. Ana turned her attention to the old man, who now stood facing her in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Ana then stunned Mr Salvati with a hard punch to the jaw, knocking him back on the sofa as his glasses flew across the room. He slid to the floor as the girl grabbed the collar of his plaid green short sleeve shirt and pulled him up, trapping him in a bear hug that included his arms, as he was not fat like Pete, he was skinny, and she could wrap her arms around his midsection and trap his arms so he couldn't fight back. She held him off the floor for thirty long seconds, shaking him, showing off her strength, holding him high enough so that she actually had to look up slightly to make eye contact with him.

“Please,” the old man pleaded. “I don't want to tussle with you.”

“Too bad, 'cause we're already tusslin',” the girl responded. “We're gonna tussle, we're gonna tangle, and we're gonna WRESTLE. We're gonna FIGHT. Whatcha gonna do now, old man? Huh? Whatcha gonna do now? Can't call for help, can ya? Can't call the cops to tell them that an eleven-year-old girl is beating you up. Can't call somebody to come help you stop me from wrestling you, can you? Can't do anything to keep me from beating the SHIT out of you and KILLING you, like I killed that other old man, can you? Can't do nothing but cry, so go ahead. Cry for me. I like it when boys cry.” She hadn't yet completely processed the fact that it was a man, not a boy, she was destroying.

She shook him a few more seconds, then tossed him to the floor and fell on him, getting him in a schoolgirl pin. He shook in fear, realizing that the girl was not making up what she had just said. She's the one who killed Pete. And she was going to kill him too. She was strong, stronger than hell, and he knew he couldn't fight her, not well enough to beat her, and that she was gonna kill him, unless he could get to the other phone in the bedroom, or even better to just get away, run out the door and call for help.

But first, he had to get the little hell cat off of him, which wasn't gonna be easy. He rolled to his left, and the girl fell against the sofa, as it was right next to them, so he rolled the other way, but she threw her left leg out, pressing her toes into the carpet to brace herself to keep from falling over. Then she punched him in the face twice as she moved her knee back to his shoulder. She grabbed two handfuls of his thinning hair.

“Please don't hurt me,” he pleaded. “Take what you like, I don't have much money, but you can have it. I got some other stuff you can have, it's pretty valuable, like silverware. You can sell it at the pawn shop and get lots of money for it, take it, just stop hurting me.”

The little girl grabbed the collar of his shirt and lowered her face so that she was just a couple of inches away. He looked into her eyes, what he knew were the eyes of evil, pure evil. “I don't want any of your shit. If I think about it, I'll take your money when I'm through with you, but all I want is your miserable life. I wanna watch you die. I'll even tell you how I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna hold you between my legs and squeeze you, crush you. You're gonna choke to death with my legs around you. You're not gonna be able to breathe, so you'll just fucking die between my legs. I want you to look at my legs, my muscles. They're gonna be the things that kill you, so look at 'em. LOOK AT THEM.”

He did what she said. She was still pinning his shoulders, so he looked at one leg, then the other. She had legs like a gymnast, like the girls in the Olympics, only smaller, because this girl wasn't even a teenager. The ones on TV were like high school and college, maybe some a little older, but mostly real young, but she was even younger. They looked strong, but they couldn't be strong enough to kill a man. Could they? He'd heard that Pete's neck was broken, and she couldn't do that with her legs. Could she? She'd just said she was gonna choke him with her legs, so she wasn't gonna break his neck, but still, what difference did it make? She'd kill him some way, if not one way then another. Either way, he had to get away. Soon as he got a chance, he was gonna run. That was the ticket.

She punched him again, then released him, standing up as she grabbed him again by the collar to pull him up. As soon as he got to his feet, he pushed her to the left, down on the sofa, then ran to the door. “Oh no you don't,” the girl said, immediately getting to her feet and legging him down. The door was still open, but it didn't matter, as she caught him just as he got there, wrapping her arms around his waist and flinging him back and down to the floor.

She then kicked the door shut with a bare foot and made sure it was closed, twisting the deadbolt and putting the chain on the door, not so much to keep anyone else from coming in, but to make it harder for him to get out. He'd have to fumble too much to go out that door, but the back door and the side door on the other side of the house also had deadbolts and chains, so the things he used to keep danger out were now in place to help keep danger in, making it difficult for him to flee. He was in a world of trouble, and he would have to think of something to keep her from killing him, as he was sure she would unless he could find a way to save himself.

She walked up to him and placed a foot on his face, grinding it into what he was sure was a broken nose. Blood soon coated the sole of her foot, but she didn't care. Why would she? The demon child probably liked having a man's blood on her foot. He grabbed her ankle and pulled her foot from his face, but she just shook it loose and put her other foot on his face, tapping his nose hard enough to cause more pain, then rubbed her foot all over his face.

“Kiss my bare feet, old man,” she ordered him. “Do it, or I'll kill you right now.” That other child, the one with the almost angelic face, was standing right there, taping all of it. What were they gonna do? Put it on that Utube place she was talking about, whatever that was. Would other people see it? If so, that should lead the police right to her. Surely they couldn't be that stupid.

“DO IT!” the girl said, smashing her foot on his face.

The man relented and took her bare foot in hand, gently, as he puckered his lips and kissed the sole of her foot, which was now bloody. It was disgusting, humiliating, but he had to buy some time, think of what he had to do next. He would have to make it to his bedroom, get ahead of her far enough so he could close the door and lock it and call the police.

After he kissed her foot, the girl then said, “Now lick it. Lick all the blood off of it. You got blood all over my foot, now you have to lick it off, all of it.”

He first thought no, I won't do that, but then gave in, starting to lick it. He started to gag, but somehow overcame it and licked as much of the blood off her foot as he could, hoping she wouldn't make her do the same thing to her other foot, but of course, she did. As soon as he was finished, she put her foot on the floor and raised the other one to within an inch of his face.

“Now lick my other bare foot, you dirty old man,” she said without a trace of humor. She just glared at him.”

“I ain't no dirty old man,” he said, determined to stand up to her, even as he could only lie there and allow her to humiliate him. “You're the one who's dirty. You're a dirty little girl.”

Then she laughed and turned to Brittany, then looked back at him and said, “You're right. I'm a dirty little girl. You want some candy and a ride on my bike? Maybe I'll let you, before I kill you.”

To be continued...
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Old 30-Sep-18, 23:40
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Default Re: Smile For the Camera and Die

Part 5

She pressed her foot down on his face, hard, then reached down and grabbed his hand, pulled it up and started twisting his wrist. He screamed in pain as she put pressure on his face with her bare foot. She stared at him for a few seconds, then eased up. He stopped screaming.

The old man finally kissed the sole of her foot, then without waiting for further instructions, started licking the blood off. When he finished the job to her satisfaction, she removed her foot and straddled him, still standing, with one foot on one side of his body and the other foot on the other side, hands on her hips as she looked down on the man, who was still lying there looking up at her, wondering what awful thing she'd do next.

He didn't have long to wait. She fell on him and wrestled him. She straddled him and didn't put up much fight when he pushed her off and tried to get up, but she grabbed the leg of his blue jeans and pulled him down. He fell on top of her, butt first, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his midsection from behind, and pulled him closer, kissing him on the cheek as she tightened up her legs and crushed him.

“Hi Grandpa,” she said, kissing him on the other cheek and she squeezed as hard as she could.

“Don't...” the old man said, meaning to tell her not to call him grandpa, but he couldn't breathe, much less talk. A long moan of pain escaped him as he pulled at her legs and punched them. He'd never felt anything like it in his life. He remembered what she said about him dying between her legs, about her killing him with them, and he thought it was crazy talk. He still thought she was insane, no question about that, but now he believed she could do it, that she could kill a man, including him, with those powerful thighs. He saw her leg muscles flexing, and wondered if he was going to die in the next few minutes. If so, he would have been lucky, but luck was not with him that day.

He closed his eyes, grimacing in pain, and when he opened them a few seconds later, the first thing he saw were her bare feet, the ones he had just kissed and licked. Her ankles were locked, and the heels of her feet rested on his stomach. There were still some remnants of blood on them, and he could still taste it in his mouth, that metallic taste. He spat it out on the floor, but the taste remained. Then the girl applied pressure to him with her legs and her arms, which were still around his neck and throat, and the taste of the blood slipped further back in his mind, as he had other things to worry about.

In desperation he grabbed her feet and started pulling, trying to unlock her ankles, but it was no good. She had him. He then started stretching her toes, something unbeknownst to him that Pete had also tried, to no avail. He pulled and pulled, but nothing happened. He'd probably have gotten more reaction by tickling them, he thought. And all the while that other little girl, the one he still thought of as Marcie, kept filming it, even focusing on his hands and her feet while he worked in vain on her bare toes.

He gave up, and his hands went back to her thighs, trying to separate them. He could feel her rock hard muscles as they continued to pressure his midsection. She adjusted them, moving them up and around his rib cage and once more flexed her muscles, causing him to cry out. Just when he thought she couldn't crush him any harder, she did. He moaned and groaned loudly as she poured on the pressure. He didn't need much air to do that, but he couldn't scream, otherwise he'd have screamed so loud it probably would have blown the roof off. The old man pounded her rock hard thighs with his fists as hard as he could, but nothing worked. It hurt. It hurt so bad, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it.

The old man silently prayed. He believed in God, went to mass every week, confession too. He asked God to be merciful and spare him from this agony, asked for God to intervene somehow and free him from this little devil, which is what he convinced himself she was, a little devil straight from hell. The girl rolled form one side to the other, then released her arms from his neck and lifted him in the air with her legs, shaking him as he continued to moan and groan.

“Can you make him stop?” asked Brittany. Those loud moans irritated her, as they reminded her how bad he must be hurting. Seeing the man suffer was bad enough, but listening to him moan like that somehow made it worse. Ana lowered him and put one arm back across his throat and the other hand over his mouth to stifle him and the whiny noises he was making. The noises didn't both her as much as her friend complaining. Brittany was a whiner, always had been, at least since she'd known her, and it irritated her.

She flexed her leg muscles again, harder than ever this time. Even with her hand over his mouth, the girls could still hear his loud groan of pain. “Oh, Goddddd,” the poor man said, but in a way that came out as a very long moan. Ana finally pulled her hand away from his mouth and bopped him on his sore nose with a fist. She then released him, but not for long.

Ana rolled a little to her right as she unwound her arms and legs, then put her bare feet on his back and pushed him away. She waited for him to get to his feet, then stood and grabbed his shoulders and turned him around so he was facing her. The little girl grabbed him by the collar and rolled backward, like she was going to monkey flip him, but instead she wrapped her arms around his neck just before they hit the floor, coiled her her legs around him, then locked her ankles behind him and squeezed. Oh how she crushed him, causing more moans and groans and “My Gods” from him that ever.

The sadistic little girl poured on the pressure. She rolled him one way, then back the other, wrestling him all over the floor, sometimes coming to rest on top of him with her feet and locked ankles still around him, and sometimes with him on top, and often with them on their sides. The man's moans and groans were agonizing to hear, as they reflected the pain and the terror the poor man was experiencing. She released his neck and placed her fingers under his chin, holding his face up so she could look into his eyes.

“Look at me, old man,” she ordered him. “Old soon to be DEAD man, LOOK AT ME.” He looked, afraid not to.“You're gonna die soon, 'cause I'm gonna KILL you, but I'm gonna do you real slow. You're gonna suffer, 'cause I'm gonna do it so slow, kill you real, real slow. You have no idea how bad it's gonna be, and there's not a thing you can do about it except cry. Now, get ready, 'cause here I come.” She then went to work on him, slipping her arms back around his neck and taking the pressure on him with her legs up to an even higher level, making him think there was no limit to what she could do with them.

He didn't think it could be any worse, but it was. The pain was awful, and she gripped him so hard and so long with her legs, he didn't think it was possible for a little girl to do that to a man, to make him hurt so bad, to actually kill him with her legs, but she was doing it. Now it was the man who rolled over and over, with the little girl glued to his body, crushing him so long and so hard it seemed she was trying to absorb his body into hers. And just as the girl predicted, the man started crying.

The badly beaten man spent the next several desperate minutes moaning, crying and rolling around on the floor with the little girl wound around him like a giant snake, as sometimes when a person experiences pain of such intensity he has to move, he can't stay still, even though moving around doesn't help, but he has to feel he's doing something, anything to relieve the pain, even though nothing works. Mr Salvati finally struggled to get up. The girl could have stopped him but didn't. Groaning and grunting, Mr Salvati made it to his knees, then to his feet, the little girl seemingly glued to him, holding him tightly with both arms and legs, crushing him harder and harder.

He staggered around, then got the idea of running into the wall hard enough to dislodge the child. He was barely able to trot, then stopped about three feet short and tried again, backing up then trying to get up some speed, but he couldn't do it. He staggered more than ran, and then fell into the wall and slid to the floor, the girl still holding onto him.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as the girl relaxed, mostly to catch her own breath. She still had the man and didn't plan to let him go until he was good and dead. When she relieved him of some of the pressure, he started crying, and after a few more minutes, the man cried even harder, struggling to free himself, but the child tightened up just enough to let him know she still had him and he wasn't going anywhere. They were on the floor where they had slid down the wall, cheek to cheek, like two lovers locked in a passionate embrace, but the only passion was her determination to kill him as slowly and painfully as possible, with the added agony of him not being able to breathe.

“Please, please, I beg you, I don't want to die,” he pleaded. “I'm just an old man who likes to work in the yard, and in my garden. I never hurt you, never did anything to you. Why you do this? Why force your way into my house and hurt me so, and want to kill me? I never did anything to you, never did anything to anybody to deserve this. I don't want to die, I want to live. Please, I beg you, please stop.” She didn't.

Instead she bore down on him as hard as before, rolling this way and that, before coming to a stop and concentrating on nothing but the pressure. He continued to cry and moan for oh so long. The loud moaning continued as she worked him over, determined to kill him. She flexed her legs and didn't let up for a long time, relaxing only now and then to give herself a break before bearing down on him again.

“DIE DIE DIE, FUCKING DIE, OLD MAN,” she screamed, as he began to lose consciousness. Her arms were still coiled around his neck and she squeezed with both sets of limbs, determined to put him away for good. And so she did. She continued to apply pressure even after he died, just to make sure. She didn't want to have to come back and find him sitting on the sofa.

Just to be sure, she released him after a few minutes and pulled his head and neck between her legs, wrapping he neck tightly between her legs and twisting his head to one side as hard as she could. It took a couple of minutes, but she heard the neck snap and knew for sure this time that he was dead. She released him and diddled his face with her naked toes, smiling for the camera as Brittany continued filming, zooming in for a closeup of Ana holding the dead man close to her, one arm around his shoulders, his head resting on her shoulder, the man looking like he's just taking a nap. She kissed his forehead and wrapped her other arm around him and gave the dead man a hug before getting up. Brittany stopped filming as they prepared to leave.

The girls then left the house, Brittany stopping at the door to retrieve her sneakers, but instead of putting them on, she walked across the yard barefoot, like her friend. The girls padded across the street and ended up at Ana's house, where Brittany once more left her shoes by the door until she was ready to go home.

It was only a couple of days before Mr Salvati's body was discovered. Neighbors once again gathered to look, asking questions and starting to spread rumors. Most kids, who were already not allowed to go outside, were upset, not because another old man had been killed, but because it was beginning to look like they'd have to stay inside all summer.

That would be fine for most kids, as they spent over half their time on their smartphones anyway. The days of going swimming in the local creek, swinging on the vine from the big oak tree and dropping into the water, riding bikes around were long gone for most kids, but this neighborhood was like a throwback in time, as many kids didn't have a smartphone, as their parents said they were too expensive. None of this applied to Ana and Brittany, as their parents, who had been reported to child protective services more than once, didn't think they were at risk, as the killer was obviously targeting old folks. What Ana told Mr Salvati about being safer outside than inside their homes would have made perfect sense to their parents.

The police had been around asking questions, but not of Ana or Brittany. They had no reason to believe kids were involved, even though Fred and Eileen Johnson had told them they had see Pete wrestling around with a little girl in the neighborhood who was known to be bad news. The police knew who she was talking about, as they were very familiar with Ana, from the times they'd been out on reports of the girl beating up boys in the neighborhood. However, they'd never heard of the mean little girl going after grown men, so they dismissed it, especially since Fred and Eileen had insisted they saw this on Tuesday evening, and the medical examiner was certain that Pete Rayburn was killed Wednesday afternoon or evening.

Even the flip flops found inside the house were not suspicious to them, as Pete had a reputation for being friendly with neighborhood kids, especially girls. No one had ever reported him for anything, but rumors were that poor Pete was a lonely old man who'd strike up a conversation with any female he considered cute. They figured he might have invited some little girl in for a glass of lemon aide or something, saying she must be hot and thirsty, and that the child had kicked off her flip flops and forgot them when she left. They discussed the possibility of the girl's father finding out and going over to beat him up or something because he thought he was up to no good, but never followed up on that theory as there were no specific leads. Ana's father was known to be very passive and unconcerned about what she did and what happened to her, and her mother, obnoxious though she may have been, was not known to be physically violent, and certainly could not have done what was done to poor Mr Rayburn.

“I'm gonna do old man Fields next,” Ana said one day, while watching a new show on the Disney channel that was okay, but not as good as Bunk'd. She was referring to Al Fields, who lived a few houses down, and was talking about it as calmly as a girl announcing she had bought some new nail polish.

“He doesn't like you at all,” Brittany said.

“Mr Salvati didn't either, and you see how much it helped him,” Ana responded. “But I think I'm gonna have some fun with him before we wrestle.”

“How?” Brittany asked.

“We probably need to stay cool for awhile, maybe for about a week before I destroy another man,” she said. It's amazing how a child's idea of staying cool after two murders in one week is so different from that of most adults. “I mean, I'm not gonna be in a big hurry to kill somebody else, but I can start working on another one. That old man Al Fields not only doesn't like me, he's a little afraid of me, so I'm gonna just play with him for awhile.”

Brittany scowled and asked, “Why would he be afraid of you? I mean, I know you're gonna kill him and all, but he doesn't know that.”

“He's seen me beat up a couple of boys, called the cops on me one time, and when he did, my mom went to his house and gave him a piece of her mind,” Ana answered. “Said he was telling the police lies, and that if it happened again, she was gonna sue him. Told him our lawyer was gonna be calling him, and you should have seen his eyes. Kinda like that old lady's cat before I killed him.” Ana had once killed a cat for no reason other than boredom. Naturally, Brittany had been there with her video camera when it happened.

“Did he?” Brittany ask.

“What?” Ana responded.

“Did your mom's lawyer call him?” Brittany asked.

“Heck no. We can't afford a lawyer,” Ana answered. “That's just stuff Mom says when she gets mad. She then told some of the neighbors Mr Al tried to mess with me. She meant by calling the cops when I beat up Bryan Jenkins, but the neighbors thought she meant something, you know, sexual, so people started telling their little girls to stay away from Mr Al.”

“So THAT's why my mom told me never to go around him, not even at Halloween,” Brittany said.

“Yep. I guess,” And said.

“What do you mean, play with him awhile?” Brittany asked, curious.

Ana smiled that wicked smile she always got when she had an idea, and said, “You'll see.”

The next day was unusually cool after a night of rain. Ana was dressed in a gray sweat shirt and black jog pants, but even though the ground was still wet, she was barefoot. Brittany wore jeans, tee shirt and a new pair of flip flops from Walmart.

Al Fields and his cat Morris were on the front porch of his house, the old man trying to read a newspaper and having difficulty, because it was breezy, and the pages, which he had trouble folding and unfolding anyway, were giving him even more difficulty today. The wind, along with the cooler temperature, was the reason Ana was wearing the sweatshirt and jog pants.

She and Brittany walked up to him. He glanced up when he saw them coming, noting that Ana was barefoot, which was not unusual for her, since he'd never seen her wearing shoes except when she got off the bus, and even then she had usually taken off her shoes and socks by the time she got off the bus, unless it was colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra. Since the ground was still wet, he figured she'd probably get a case of ground itch, which would serve her right, as mean as she was.

“Hey Mr Al,” Ana said, being friendly to him for the first time since he didn't know when.

“What do you want?” he asked, making a point of looking directly at her bare feet and scowling to show his disapproval. He couldn't stand this girl.

Ana ignored his disapproving look at her feet and came right out with it, knowing what the answer would be but not caring. After all, she wanted to toy with him awhile.

“I wanna rassle with you and let Brittany video it and put it up on YouTube,” she said, as innocently as if she were asking him to buy Girl Scout cookies.

He glanced over his newspaper and frowned, then said, “Little girl, I have no doubt that you could turn me every way but loose. I'm an old man, never was much into sports, and hardly ever fought anybody even when I was a kid. I've seen what you can do to neighborhood boys, even some of 'em bigger than you, so let's just agree that you could easily beat the snot out of me and leave it at that.” He then went back to pretending to read the paper, although he knew he wouldn't be about to concentrate for awhile after that challenge, not for awhile, even after they left.

“You're just afraid my mom would call her lawyer on you again,” the child said. Zing.

The man ignored her, so Ana, not taking no so easily, continued. “Aw, c'mon. This is just for fun. I promise not to hurt you TOO bad.”

“Little girl, I am NOT going to...rassle you, or any other little girl in this or any neighborhood,” he said as sternly as possible. “If I did that, even just for fun, everyone would think I was a pervert, and you know that.” He was very aware that the kids in the neighborhood had started avoiding him after his confrontation with Ana's mother, and always figured she had something to do with it. Even if he wanted to mess with little girls, he wouldn't mess with this one.

“I already thought you were a pervert, which is why I thought you'd want to,” she said. Damn, the kid was quick.

“That's all the more reason not to go around asking men to wrestle,” he said. “Any man that would say yes would have to be a pervert.” He was pretty quick, too, he thought, for an old man.

The girl was slow to respond, but when she did, it sent chills up his spine. “I'm gonna make you wrestle me whether you want to or not,” she said. “The longer you wait, the worse it's gonna be. That's a promise.” She then turned to Brittany and said, “Come on. Let's get out of here. I'm allergic to chickens.” They started to leave.

“All the more reason not to come around me any more,” he shot back.

“Bak bak bak bak bak,” Ana responded, doing her best impersonation of a chicken, as she looked over her shoulder at the man, then said, “I'll tell my mom you said hello.” She padded off as she went back to doing her chicken imitation.

He ignored it. That was the best thing to do. He soon figured out what was going on. This little girl had had the police called on her so damn much for beating up boys, she was going around trying to pick fights with old men, figuring she was stronger and could probably beat them up easily. The damned thing about it was, she was probably right. He'd seen that kid beat up boys more than once, not just that time he called the police. She'd actually got one boy, older and bigger, in a bear hug, lifting off the ground and squeezing him with her arms till he cried, then threw him on the ground and wrestled him, wrapping her legs around him and crushing him.

He had run toward them, telling her to stop, and she'd said, “Why, you wanna fight me instead?” He had pulled out his cell phone, and she turned the boy loose, getting up and stepping on the poor kid's face with her bare foot, and said, “This ain't over. Second fall coming up next time I see you,” and walked away. Al had helped the boy up, walked home with him and told her parents what she had said. This was after the threat to sue, but he didn't care. He talked to the police when they came out, and told them what she'd said. He was afraid he'd hear from Ana's mom, and was very relieved when he didn't.

He wasn't that much afraid of really being sued. Mostly, he just didn't like confrontation. Hated it. It upset him, ruined his day, especially since he could seldom think of the right thing to say until it was over, which made him want to tell them, to call them later and respond, which would just start the confrontation all over again. The girl's mother would say something else, and he wouldn't be able to think of a response until later, and he'd then be back where he started, wanting to call and tell her, but then she'd say something he hadn't anticipated and hang up, leaving him to once again think of something later and it would never end. So it was best to avoid it altogether.

That woman was crazy, and her little girl was even crazier. No way he was gonna mess with either one of those females. But the kid's parting shot bothered him, even scared him a little: “I'm gonna make you wrestle me whether you want to or not.” This kid meant it. She was not the kind of person to make idle threats. If she said she was gonna make him wrestle her, she was going to at least try to make him wrestle her. And whether he accepted the challenge or not, she was probably going to make things difficult for him. Poor Al. He didn't know the half of it.

Ana kept a close eye on Al's house for awhile. He was a man who did the same things every day at the same time. He went grocery shopping at 9:00 am, before the stores were usually very crowded. Not every day, but at least two or three times a week. His doctor appointments were early for the same reason. He sat out on the porch to read his paper, usually around 10:30 am, then after an hour, went inside for lunch. H took his daily walk around 8:00 pm in the summer, earlier during cooler times of the year when the sun went down sooner.

Ana would make a point to be in the area during those times, and when he came outside, she'd say, “Hey Mr Al. Wanna wrestle?” He just ignored her. Or tried to. He went outside to check his mail around 3:30 pm. One day the obnoxious kid was standing by his mailbox wearing a tee shirt and a pair of shorts, leaning on it, elbow on top of the box, one leg crossed over the other lower leg, up on the toes of one bare foot.

He was tempted to go back inside, but was determined not to be intimidated. “Wanna wrestle?” she asked. He ignored her, then stood in front of the box so he couldn't retrieve his mail.

“Please move,” he said.

“Make me,” she said. She was blocking the opening of the mailbox, and he didn't dare touch her to try to make her move.

He glared at her. She glared back. He lost the stare down and went back inside, losing the battle but figuring he could always check his mail later, but irritated that she had won.

“We're gonna wrestle sooner or later,” the little girl called out to him. “And remember, the longer you wait, the worse it's gonna be...for you. I can hurtcha bad. Real bad. And I will,” she continued.

He later thought of all kinds of things he could have said, of course, but it didn't matter. Al would not have been able to move that kid with anything short of a bulldozer. Some battles just weren't worth fighting, or at least he tried to convince himself of that. One thing was for sure. He was not going to wrestle that little girl. Nothing she could do would change that. Or so he thought.

One morning he came out to go grocery shopping and damned if the little witch wasn't sprawled out on the hood of his car, wearing nothing but a sleeveless pink leotard, the same one she had wore when she killed Mr Salvati. He thought it was a swimsuit, and for all practical purposes, it was. She was lying on the hood on her side, her head propped up with her hand, one leg fully extended with the other leg on top of the extended leg, bent slightly at the knee. Her hair was loose, falling nicely around her shoulders and looked as though it had been washed recently. As always, she was completely barefoot. It was her attempt at a pinup pose, and she was doing a damn good job of it, precocious little thing that she was.

“Good morning Al,” she said, in her best attempt at a sexy voice. Al notice she had dropped the “Mr” in front of his name. “Wanna wrestle?”

“I think I've made myself clear, so please stop asking me, and get off of my damn car,” he said, refusing to be intimidated by her. Of course, she wasn't intimidated by him, either.

“Make me,” she said, shifting her position so that she was on her stomach, her chinned propped up by the palm of her hand as she swung her bare feet back and forth behind her.

“To do that I'd have to put my nice clean hands on your grungy little body, and at best you'd accuse me of trying to rape you, and at worst you'd jump on me and start wrestling, which is what you want to do, so I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of either one,” he said in a stern voice. “Now, get off my car.”

“Make me,” she said again.


To be continued...

Last edited by dirksneath; 01-Oct-18 at 08:08.
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domination, mixed, older males, scissors, violence, young girl

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