Sometimes Veronica
by Scott Tinch

After working the street most of the evening, she was tired, cold and ready to go home. She shivered and pulled the faux fur coat closer around her scantily clad body, continuing to scan the traffic. Most appeared to be harried motorists on their way home after working late. She got several second-looks and a couple of honks and yells, but no one stopped. She was almost ready to try a different corner when a late-model BMW eased to a stop along the curb. Not bad, she mused, nice ride- probably has a lot of cash. This would be her last for tonight, it was becoming far too cold to walk the street.

"Hi!" she beamed as the door opened and she peered in, "want a date?"

"Sure, hop in," came the reply from inside. He was young and handsome- extremely handsome, compared to most of her customers. "Getting a bit chilly tonight, eh?"

"You know it, mister. I’ve been freezing my ass off out there." She closed the door behind her. The car was warm, and smelled of newness and leather.

"Mister? Let’s dispense with the formalities. Please, call me Steve."

"Okay. Steve it is."

"And what might your name be?" he inquired, turning up the heater a notch.

"Well…. It might be Vera… Or Ronnie… Sometimes, Veronica. It really depends on my mood "

"Sometimes Veronica. I like that. It sounds…almost poetic." He smiled warmly, exposing gleaming, perfect teeth.

She giggled in spite of herself. This guy was a real charmer. Plus, he was obviously doing pretty well for himself. Why on earth was he out here? He belonged at one of the chic clubs uptown, not down here, trolling for- she stopped herself- What do I care? Maybe he’ll even be a repeat customer.

"Ok Steve, what’ll it be? A BJ is fifty, half- &-half is a hundred. Anything else is negotiable. We can use your car or room- if you have one. If you don’t, I know a place, but it’s an extra thirty."

"Well, Sometimes Veronica," Steve said casually pulling a large bankroll from his pocket, "here’s what I’d like to do…" He peeled off five one-hundred dollar bills and pressed them into her hand. "I’m lonely, and I really just want some companionship. You know, someone to talk to."

"Mis- I mean Steve- are you sure, I mean I-"

"Yes. Absolutely sure. I have a room just a few blocks from here. If you’re not interested though, I’ll gladly drop you of at the next-"

"No! No, that’s fine. Hell- I’ve had stranger requests." She quickly pocketed the money, hardly believing her good fortune. She had heard other girls talk about shit like this, but it had never happened to her. She could do a lot of listening for five hundred bucks.

"Fine then, Sometimes Veronica," Steve beamed, "thank you very much. We’ll be there shortly."

A few minutes later, the BMW turned down an alleyway and stopped in front of an industrial garage door. Steve thumbed the button on a tiny remote, and the door rumbled slowly open. Once inside, it slid shut behind them.

"I thought you had a room?" Veronica asked, peering around the huge space. They were in some sort of warehouse.

"Oh, I do," Steve said, opening his door. "I’m an artist of sorts, and this is my workspace. There’s a loft upstairs where I stay on nights that I’m too tired to drive home."

Wow, thought Veronica, this guy is really loaded. Commercial space wasn’t cheap- and he had another place too. Steve motioned for her and she followed him up a corrugated steel staircase to the upper floor. After opening a series of locks and deadbolts, Steve ushered her into his quarters, which appeared to have come directly from the pages of Metropolitan Living magazine. Everything was burnished steel, chrome and glass. Steve flicked a switch on the wall and a fire immediately sprang to life in the fireplace.

"Have a seat, Sometimes Veronica," Steve said, motioning to the long, black leather couch in front of the fire. "Would you care for a drink?"

"Sure," she replied, still awe-struck by the luxuriant interior, "What’ve you got?"

"Well, I would recommend the brandy. I have an excellent vintage. It’ll take the chill from your bones faster than the fire will."

"Sounds great!" Brandy? Veronica was used to cheap wine, maybe a bottle of rot-gut whiskey, but brandy- that’s a rich person’s drink. She could get used to this. She was determined to be the best companion and listener that Steve had ever seen. This was definitely a gravy train, and she intended to ride it for as long as possible.

Steve brought her the brandy in a tall snifter, then took her coat and hung it on a rack near the entryway. He then excused himself, disappearing into what Veronica assumed was the sleeping quarters. "I’ll be out shortly," she heard him exclaim from somewhere within the loft, "I just want to change into something comfortable. Make yourself at home."

Veronica sipped greedily at her brandy as she gazed around the loft. There were many artsy-fartsy baubles and knick-knacks she could pocket- good for a few quick bucks at the pawnshop. No, she stopped herself, thinking better of it. It would be best not to be sticky fingered if she was going to turn this into a long-term deal. She drained the rest of her drink and placed the empty snifter on a coaster. The warmth of the brandy was already racing through her body.

Shortly, Steve returned. She wasn’t sure how long it had been- had she drifted off? Bleary-eyed, she saw that Steve’s idea of "something comfortable" was actually buck-naked He was smiling, his fully erect penis bobbing before him as he crossed the room. Oh well, Veronica mused to herself, such much for the "I just want someone to talk to" shtick. She started to reach up to unbutton her blouse, but her hands remained at her sides. What the hell? She tried again, but her hands did little more than tremble slightly. It was like being in someone else’s body. Veronica, in her confusion, looked to Steve, who stood directly in front of her now, still smiling.

"How are you feeling, Sometimes Veronica? Strange sensation, isn’t it?"

Veronica tried to speak, but could manage nothing more than a guttural groan.

"It’s a very strong, very fast-acting chemical compound. I get it from a veterinarian friend of mine in New Jersey. He uses it on horses. Myself, I use it on pretty girls. I’ve found, through trial and error, that brandy masks the bitterness perfectly. It basically short-circuits the central nervous system, but miraculously leaves all mental faculties fully intact. On humans, anyway. Simply amazing, these modern drugs."

Steve hefted her over his shoulder and carried her downstairs to his workspace. Soon, he had her stripped naked and tied spread-eagle over a canvas-covered table. Able to only gaze upward, Veronica was horrified to see her helpless form reflected back via a huge mirror suspended from the ceiling. Steve looked up into the mirror, his eyes meeting hers.

"Ah, you noticed. Rather thoughtful of me, don’t you think? I wouldn’t want you to miss any of the fun."

He removed a wicked looking hunting knife from a rack on the wall, held it where she could see.

"Gerber. German steel- some of the finest craftsmanship in the world. Ceramic edged, very high-tech. And sharp as a razor." To illustrate this point, he tossed a sheet of paper upward and deftly sliced it into several pieces in mid-air. "Amazing, isn’t it?" Steve grinned up at the reflection of her prone image.

He took the knife and slowly traced squiggles over her face, breasts, belly and thighs. Every place the knife touched, the skin opened like a smile, a thin line of angry red appearing in its wake.

"Isn’t that amazing, Sometimes Veronica? You can see yourself beginning to bleed, yet you can’t feel a thing. Your body is in intense pain right now, but your mind doesn’t register it. Some artists feel they have to suffer for their art- Me, I leave others to suffer for mine."

He raised the knife, allowing her to see the gore that sparkled on the blade.

"All the colors of the human rainbow," he said, lightly tracing lines of blood across her taut stomach, "Blood red. Bile yellow. Shit brown." Using the tip of the blade, he gently parted the lips of her vagina. "And my own personal addition…semen white!"

With those words he violently thrust the knife into her sex with all his might, his throbbing penis ejaculating as he did. Each plunge of the blade coinciding with the spurts of come, head thrown back in ecstatic agony, he continued until spent. At last, panting, his body drenched with sweat, he looked up into the mirror. Veronica’s emotionless face only stared back. He smiled, wiping beads of perspiration from his brow.

Her mind was screaming, but she felt nothing. Not even a few seconds later, when he split her from vagina to sternum. The blackness slowly engulfed her as she heard Steve whisper into her ear: "Prepare to be immortalized. Bitch."

 **************

A few weeks later, Steve’s cell phone chirped as he drove through midtown Manhattan.

"Hello?"

"Steve, this is Armand." Armand was the owner of a prestigious Soho gallery.

"Yes?"

"Have you seen the papers today?"

"Um, no… Why?"

"Your opening last night surpassed even our greatest expectations. The critics love your paintings!"

"Oh my God!" Steve exclaimed, almost ramming a taxi in his excitement, "You’re joking."

"No way. Steve baby, you are a star! They’re calling you the next Jackson Pollock! The anger, the angst- they eat that shit up. Every canvas has a buyer, and I’ve started a waiting list for the next batch."

"I…I’m speechless. Really, I am."

"Meet me at the gallery later. We simply must celebrate."

"Okay, but let me get back to you, I’m a bit busy at the moment."

"Sounds good. And again, congratulations Steve- you deserve it."

"Than you. Than you very much Armand." Steve terminated the connection.

As he continued driving, he looked at his smiling reflection in the rearview mirror. He found it more than just a bit ironic that the critics were comparing his works with Pollock- who was also sometimes referred to as "Jack the Dripper."

Steve eased the sleek BMW over to the curb, where an anxious-looking blonde wearing a too-short skirt gazed admiringly in his direction and stepped toward the car.

 ©2002 Scott Tinch