For mature audiences only
SHE WAS EXACTLY THE TYPE he loved to rape. She wasn’t a whore! She was someone’s wife, mother, sister, and daughter. She was loved. That’s what made it so damn tantalizing. Killing her would cause the most excruciating pain to those who loved her. There’d be the inevitable, why’s, if only’s, and of course, the most odious guilt trip of them all, I should have.
No, he didn’t have to rape. He liked to rape. Hence his chosen nickname for himself, WARONS. Which was an acronym for Westside Area Rapist Original Night Stalker. He’d read something similar in Joseph James DeAngelo’s case file. The California newspapers had nicknamed him EARONS – East Area Rapist Original Night Stalker.
DeAngelo, like him, was of that thick-necked, hard-headed, obstinate type so typical in the American Police Force.
He was a tall, square chested, broad-shouldered, powerful looking man with large strong hands. His jaw was set square. His eyes, a clear, bright, and alert blue. He had a wide forehead, equal and well set eyebrows, and a head full of straight, black hair that would have rendered him of Mexican heritage had not been for his blue eyes.
He was, for most women, the quintessential, tall, dark, handsome, apple-pie eating American boy. An American boy who liked to rape and kill women.
As Latrice Armstrong had left her mother’s house, in Canaryville, earlier that afternoon, he’d taken the liberty of writing down her license plate number. While at work, on break, he’d ran it. God, he loved being a cop. Being a cop had opened up all types of women’s legs for him. He’d raped women in their homes, in alleyways, store stockrooms, and once or twice, in broad daylight on the side of the highway.
He liked raping ordinary women. Not so much the hookers. He’d only started doing them, for revenge, after learning of the connection between a certain Alderman and a Commander, who, as it turned out were both related, in one way or another, to the men who’d killed his father for raping Helen.
There was no doubt in mind that his father had deserved being killed. But to have his dick cut off and shoved down his throat and his body dumped on the front steps of their home like a worn out animal carcass was a step too far.
It had been his friend, Jerome’s mother, who had told his mother of what was being whispered about the neighborhood of the circumstances that had led to his father’s murder.
“That poor negro child had come home, hysterical, without her underwear. Said your husband had done things to her,” she’d whispered in the kitchen, over tea and knobby fingers of Rožky, to his mother. Need-less-to-say, the woman was never allowed back in the house, again.
He was only taking up where his father had left off. He was BTK, Son of Sam, and the Hillside Strangler all rolled into one. He realized his father had been right all along. He was his father’s son. He was an abomination.
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