The Darker Side
by Quentin "Marquis" Chamberlain

I

Franklin DeAngelo uneasily sat in his cubicle quietly trembling; still hearing the high-pitched screams from the night before echoing in his mind. Visions of what he had witnessed were branded on his eyes. He remembered how it all began, and wondered what went so terribly wrong.

Cursed with excruciatingly plain looks, and with a personality even less stunning, women often paid him little attention, if any. Franklin hated it, but anything he did to become noticeable to the softer sex was to no avail. Making small talk with women was futile, half the time they never even realized he was speaking to them. Women had tortured him his whole life and it was time to get even, time to have some fun.

After work two nights a week, he went directly home and prepared. He showered, shaved, dressed in a dark suit and headed out to the upscale singles clubs. Women that frequented these establishments were usually professional types, unwinding after a hard day in the business world. It was a game and he had mastered it in Machiavellian fashion.

These women enjoyed talking about their day as if they were important. Franklin listened patiently, carefully calculating the correct responses while feeding them more drinks. Once they had a few, he would pour the powdery contents of three previously ground up Percocets into a drink. Then it was just a matter of time before they wanted to leave or he suggested trying another club. He used any excuse to get them out of the club and into a dark alley; they were in no condition to argue. Handcuffing them to a dumpster or fire escape, he would lift up their business skirts and take them from behind. He particularly enjoyed the ones in heels

He stopped watching the news reports after his forth conquest; they dubbed him Prince Charming. The women found handcuffed never could recall much about the Prince, only that he was plain. Frustrated police had to compare differing descriptions.

But last night was different. After having his way with a pretty blonde stockbroker, he had turned the corner of the dark alley when her shrieking cries pierced the night. Franklin ran back into the alley to see the women lying on the ground. It was dark and he could just barely make out her form, but he had always handcuffed them in a standing, bent over position for his enjoyment. As he walked closer he saw her wrists still cuffed, the body a few feet away. The arms were dangling, having been cut from the body at the shoulders. He turned to run but slipped. The ground felt cold and wet; he was covered in her blood.

He only hoped no one observed him entering the apartment building, or his own residence for that matter. Seizure-like tremors attacked his body as he discarded the bloodstained clothes that harbored the guilt of someone else’s murderous deed.

"The ravager has struck again. Police found the body of a young woman in an alley just hours ago brutally raped and tortured. No details were given, but detectives believe it’s the same man. This is the seventh rape, but only the third vicious killing. Police have had no comment as to why the rapist suddenly turned sadistic killer," squawked the late news on Franklin’s television.

"A third killing, the ravager?" he spoke aloud in disbelief. Aghast at the name change, his mind wandered. There was no doubt someone knew his activities and was killing his playmates. He had always made it a point to leave them alive; his strict Catholic upbringing would never allow for murder. Rape could be forgiven, but never murder.

His cubicle felt small, but somehow safe. Staring at his computer, he painfully tried to recreate last night; searching his mind’s eye for anyone out of place, unusual. It was useless.

While waiting for the elevator with a group of people he overheard a gorgeous red head speculating upon the possibility of visiting Beau’s, a trendy club for singles. Immediately, thoughts raced through his head of the needed preparations and the time it would take to arrive there.

He was having second thoughts about tonight’s plans. Guilt overwhelmed his Catholic conscience. Even though he hadn’t killed these women, he was still at least partially responsible. After all, he left them bound in a helpless state when he was through. There was no chance for them to fight or flee. This was his unforgivable sin.

"If I see anyone remotely suspicious I’ll call it off and I won’t leave them cuffed," he spoke aloud to himself in the shower. He felt as if he were being watched in his own bathroom while trying to soothe the fear and the guilt.

Franklin arrived at Beau’s well over an hour before his intended playmate. Spending this time wisely, he attempted to memorize every face that surrounded him, an impossible task. After only a short time, all the faces looked the same. None were recognizable, they all melded into one vision.

Feeling dizzy and contemplating going home, he noticed the red head sitting at the bar not far from him. Having become so confused, he hadn’t even seen her enter the building. As he made his way to her, he realized that he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. There was no reason not to continue with tonight’s plan.

He sat down next to her and ordered an Alabama Slammer and a Bud. "I see you’re a two-fisted drinker," she said with slurred speech.

It was so much sweeter when the intended target struck up the conversation. "It’s been a rough day," he replied, ordering the bartender to bring her another of what she was having.

"This place is mobbed," Franklin stated rather forcefully. It was always best to begin dropping hints early; this made it easier to explain a desire to leave later when the time was right.

She looked at him and smiled. "Actually, it just got crowded within the last hour," she replied.

"The last hour?" he pondered. He had been there over an hour and hadn’t seen her.

After a few hours, countless drinks and endless smalltalk, he learned her name was Angeline. Following his usual format, he bided his time allowing her to reveal any information he would need to gain her confidence.

His head was spinning. Having consumed more alcohol than usual, he was becoming sloppy. When Angeline visited the ladies’ room, she took her drink with her. Franklin found this rather odd, but let it pass. "If I’m this buzzed already, she must be loaded," he postulated easing his concerns. The ritual of spiking the playmates’ drink with a painkiller for added insurance could be foregone tonight. Actually, he relished the thought of having a victim that could feel and react to what he was doing. All the others had just endured his sexual malice, incapable of anything beyond whispering the word, "no."

Angeline returned with an empty drink. "I think we should try someplace less crowded," she suggested to Franklin’s delight.

As they staggered out, he mentioned that they’d be better off if he drove. "My car is around the block, it will be quicker if we cut through here," he stated while steering her wobbling gait in that direction.

Franklin looked around to be sure they weren’t seen entering the alley. All was well, no witnesses and no one to harm his victim when he was through.

This was too easy. By the time they reached the barred windows at the end of the alley, Angeline was giggling. "What do you have in mind?" she questioned with a sultry, erotic-intentioned yet slurred voice.

It took less than thirty seconds to have her cuffed to the bars, the prospect at which she didn’t complain. He was stunned that a woman wearing a skirt so short was not wearing any panties. As he inserted himself, she appeared to enjoy it.

During the throws of sexual ecstasy, she spouted the expected erotic responses, "More, harder, faster, and, fuck me Franklin." It was a surreal situation as he rammed himself deeper inside her.

In the dim light, he noticed her wrists were dug deep into the cuffs. The sexual aggression reached a feverish pitch when he finally exploded inside her. Without a word, he quickly zipped up and exited the alley.

Franklin awoke before the alarm sounded. He lay in bed replaying the events of the night before. Slowly stroking his erection beneath the sheets, he could still hear her voice, "harder, faster, deeper, fuck me Franklin."

He softened at the realization that she called him by his name. It was a breach of his own rules to give out his real name to his victim, but he had become so inebriated it may have slipped. There was no sense in worrying about it. He hadn’t drugged her and she seemed willing enough. His thoughts turned back to the seemingly masochistic playmate.

He sat up startled. "Oh fuck, the cuffs!" he exclaimed aloud.

In his rush to exit the alley he never uncuffed Angeline. Turning on the television for the early news, he remembered how the cuffs dug into her wrists.

After watching for an hour, his anxiety diminished. There was no mention of a rape let alone a killing. "Could she still be there, handcuffed to the windows’ bars?" he questioned.

On his way to work, he stopped by Beau’s. Cautiously and quietly, he walked down the alley. Glittering in the early morning light he could see the handcuffs still attached to the iron bars. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that neither pair had been opened. "She must have slid her hands out," he thought easing his conscience.

Franklin was preoccupied all day with memories of the night before. Thoroughly aroused by the night’s events, he still couldn’t help wonder how she got out of those cuffs. He could visualize them digging into the soft skin at her wrists.

The temptation was too great. He couldn’t resist going out for a second night in a row. "Maybe Beau’s again, I could run across Angeline," he hoped. He never went back to a place where he had committed a crime, but after all, he hadn’t actually raped her.

He thought he kept seeing Angeline all around Beau’s, but he couldn’t catch up to her in the crowd before she vanished. No matter, he already had his eye on a runner up. This evening his playmate was a young brunette, working toward her real estate license. She didn’t have a high tolerance for alcohol and with the Percocet mixed in; she was half unconscious by the time they reached the end of the alley.

Franklin cuffed his brunette beauty to the windows’ bars with the same apparatus that hung there, the ones he had used less than twenty-four hours ago with Angeline. While lifting her skirt and inserting himself, he heard a familiar voice.

It was his pounding head that he awoke to. He could feel the blood trickling down the back of his neck. He wanted to check his wound with his hand, but he had been cuffed to a dumpster directly across from the barred window. Franklin screamed in horror.

His latest victim’s arms still hung from the bars, her torso a few feet away. He could hear the sound of high heels coming toward him, a woman in her "fuck me" pumps.

Angeline emerged from the darkness. "This is more like it; after all, isn’t this what you’re really after?" she posed the question.

He struggled trying to free his wrists. "Who are you and why would you do something so vicious?" he blurted out fearfully.

"I’m you, Franklin. More to the point, I’m your feminine side. Yes, without me you men would never accomplish anything." Angeline sighed, "Behind every good man there’s a strong woman; I bet you never knew just how true that is?"

His powers of reasoning failed. This was just too much for his mind to bear. "I never wanted anyone killed," Franklin exclaimed.

"Deep down you did, you just can’t admit it, but you can’t hide anything from me" she explained. "You’ve hated women all of your life for ignoring you while believing they’re the weaker sex. You’re a misogynist. Truth is, it is the opposite sex trait hidden in everyone that manifests free will. The only reason women are so weak and indecisive are because they are guided by their male side."

The words "Prince Charming" were scrawled above Franklin’s head on the wall in the victim’s blood when police arrived. He was tried and convicted of all the rapes and murders. After spending only two months in prison he was transferred to a facility for the criminally insane. Nightly visits from Angeline revealing his darkest ambitions left him a stuttering lunatic, unable to comprehend the reality surrounding him.

© Quentin "Marquis" Chamberlain

Quentin Chamberlain, 29 yr.old student pursuing a JD/MBA. Influences include,  HP Lovecraft, Clive Barker and Stephen King. Another short story, Hell's Outcasts, will be in the webzine The Haunted, May/June issue.

April 2000 HofP