Lola and the Snake

Her name was Lola, and yea, she was a showgirl. I met her down in Fresno, dancing in this dive down by the freeway. Shaking her money-makers for hairy ass truckers and rumpled salesmen. I remember she had this tattoo: a snake, coiling all the way from her stomach round to her shoulder blades. And every time she slid round that pole it looked like it was alive. Writhing round her body.

And it was some body: legs like you wouldn’t believe, skin like ivory silk, a spatter of freckles between her breasts, hair like fire, face like an angel... Too good to waste. Far too good.



She screams as the knife goes in. Even though I’m being gentle. She screams and I have to hit her. Again and again and again. Until she doesn’t scream any more. Just lies there, twisted and pale in the empty car park round the back of Bobby’s Bar And Grill. The neon sign flashes on and off in lazy purple waves as she bleeds out onto the asphalt. On. Off. On. Off.

This is not good. I like it when they wriggle. But I’ll take what I can get.



My phone goes as I’m putting the shovel back in the car – Agent Patterson, wanting to know if I’ll be in the field office tomorrow. He’s a nice enough kid, but green like you wouldn’t believe. So I listen to him whine about his caseload as I tidy up, making sure Lola’s final resting place isn’t going to be found anytime soon.

That’s what pisses me off about these morons with their shallow graves. You want caught? Go hand yourself in to the nearest cop and stop wasting everyone’s time. Fuckwad. Lola’s buried nice and deep, covered in compost accelerant to speed up the process. And they won’t be identifying her from any dental records either. I got her teeth in my pocket. I toss them out the window, one by one, as I drive back into town. All except the last one, which I’ll mail to a Police Chief in Denver I know gets off on this kind of thing.

Poor bastard’s been chasing me for years.