Misfits
Part Three
Shiloh hated scenes like this. Why couldn’t he have just had his drink? Most did. Why didn’t he act slow and cautious when he arrived? Most of them did. Why did he have to come on so strong? Why was he all hands the second the motel door closed. Some of them were clumsy, fumbling, some acted like virgins themselves. Not this one. He didn’t try to grab a handful of padded bra or stick his tongue down Shiloh’s throat. He pushed at Shiloh, hard, he pushed and pulled and shoved his hand right inside of Shiloh’s skirt.
“Your sister?” The man had forgotten about all his shallow cuts. Even the deep wound along his side was temporarily forgotten, subject just as Shiloh had been to his entitled sense of incredulity.
“Yeah, my sister. The one you hit, the one you hurt. The one you were planning to rape until we interrupted your fucking plans.”
Thomas Mayhew grunted in disgust and pain and planted his arm back over his side to stop himself from spilling out all over the forest floor. He was mortally wounded but he still had his pride to consider. “Your sister, is nothing but a fag in a dress.”
Shiloh was already creeping up on things. Stepping slow and steady toward the man. The last time something like this happened Wendy got her way and Shiloh was too slow. It was horrible to listen to, worse to watch.
Father always told them, “Make your kills quick and clean. These are monsters but not even monsters should suffer. Torture changes you more than your victim. Never enjoy a kill, just get it done and live your life.”
Shiloh didn’t let the change come. It wasn’t needed for this kill. The long, thin dagger would work, it usually did. The man was busy, preoccupied, arguing with his would-be murderer over worthless semantics. The jab came quick and he was dead before his tired knees hit the dirt.
“I had this!” Wendy was angry, she would be for a while. Shiloh had already learned over the last year not to offer up father’s teachings. His words only made things worse. “I’m tired, I hurt, I need to feed.”
Shiloh was tired, and hurt, and the hunger was always there, none of those reasons were why the long, thin dagger got shoved into the man’s temple and yanked back out again before he fell to the ground. Father was concerned, worried, always on edge, but he was also right. Engaging with prey gave them time to think, improvise, strike back. Wendy was reckless and becoming more so. She was enjoying the kills, even more than the hunt.
“Fuck, ok. I’ll go get the van. We’ll have to haul the body over to that fence and up over it though. Hope you’re ready to she-hulk it out.”
Shiloh nodded, trying to push down the side of the blonde wig. Wendy only shook her head, “Don’t bother, I’ll have to take out all the clips and fix it. After.”
Wendy stopped and put a hand out, lifting Shiloh’s chin. “That piece of shit really did a number on you.”
“I’ll heal, especially once I eat.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, once they don’t want their drink you text me. I’m not sitting out in that van so I can wait for them to hurt you.”
No, you wait out in that van hoping they’ll do something like this so I can yell and you can come in carving them up so the motel manager can call the cops and you can die in a hail of bullets. Shiloh acknowledged the thought and let it pass. The hunts were becoming more dangerous and it had nothing to do with the quality of their prey.
“Do you hear me?”
Shiloh nodded and continued to play the only card Wendy acknowledged anymore. “Yes, text you. I’m sorry, I’m just…hungry.”