The Lizard in a
Woman's Skin
By Jeff Turner
"I am the word made flesh. All that believeth in me, though
they may die, they shall yet live," said Sullivan Biddle to those gathered
before him in the Main Hall of his desert chateau. Some blank-faced, some with
yearning, but all focused in one way or another on his words. Biddle licked his
lips, then added. "If ye surrender to me, and obey me..."
"Praise him! Praise him! Our strength and our redeemer!"
the congregation said in unison, a robotic chorus of sycophants.
Biddle threw up his head, eyes blazing, arms held out in a
magnificent display as he took it all in with great satisfaction, his ego
swelling with his pride and joy immense beyond measure.
They'd do anything, and everything, he commanded of them. He knew
it. They were his, all thirty-seven of them, to use and manipulate as he saw
fit, in any and every way imaginable. And not just the men, but the women, and
the children too. To him they were animals. Objects. Things, toys for him to
play with. For Sullivan Biddle was a fiend. A devilishly wicked, deplorable
fiend.
Sullivan Biddle was
best described as a psychopath. Though some might jump to describe him as a
sociopath, sociopaths are created by their environment. Psychopaths are born
that way.
The forty-seven-year-old Biddle was well aware of his being a
psychopath. He'd known from early childhood he was different from his peers. In
his view it made him something above them, better than them.
To Biddle, people were sheep. And he was a wolf, disguised as the
shepherd. The wicked shepherd. Whose favorite pastime was lechery.
He wore an angelic facade, presenting himself to his congregants,
his cultists, as an austere and godly holy man, a prophet. Such a description
couldn't be any further from the truth. For behind closed doors, the fiend came
out to play.
"Hee hee hee!" Biddle laughed as he sat at his desk in
his lavish private chamber later that night. He picked up his phone and dialed
Old Man Johnson, the proprietor of the establishment known as the Kit Kat
Ranch, a high-class escort service. "Old Man Johnson, it's Sullivan
Biddle, need ya ta send me another girl. The last one you sent me, she was no
good, started cryin' and shit. Lost her god damned mind is what she gone and
done. Send me another, blonder, younger..." He paused, listening to Old Man
Johnson's reply. "Oh, joy, that'll be just swell! Send her over
ASAP!"
He ended the call, beaming. Tonight was looking to be a most
interesting night, a fun night. Old Man Johnson was sending him something
special. His "very, very best," the fat old man had promised, and Old
Man Johnson never made a promise he couldn't keep. Well, not when it came to
these sorts of transactions.
This would be more
fun than breaking the wills of emotionally stunted, mentally ill, and
trauma-plagued puppets, as were most of his congregation in the Sacred Order of
Jebicus the Redeemer. That pastime got old after a while and bored him. If
there was anything he hated or feared, it was being bored. Always on the
lookout for new means of stimulation, willing to try anything, and everything,
in Biddle's view the more depraved the better. And if other people had to
suffer to allow him to secure some immediate gratification, so be it.
A short time later, a knock on his chamber door interrupted him. He
answered it and found standing in the hallway his manservant Negus, an African
migrant whom he ensnared in his web of lies and deceit. To make matters worse,
it was Biddle who insisted on calling him Negus, a cruel jest, though the poor
man never voiced dissent.
"The girl you asked for is here, Master Biddle," he said,
in a thick Congolese accent.
Biddle allowed a wicked, lascivious grin. "Well, Negus, send
her in, send her in, then be off with you!"
Negus bowed his head, then shuffled off to carry out his orders.
Moments later, soft footsteps could be heard, and in the doorway appeared a
young woman, one who looked young enough to still be a teenager. Not that this
dissuaded Biddle.
She was ravishing, like a Hollywood starlet. She had long blonde
hair, grey-blue eyes, and a pneumatic, hourglass figure, in a tight-fitting
light blue sequin dress. Short, barely five feet tall, maybe a couple inches
more. Biddle himself wasn't very tall, only five eight and wore lifts to make
himself appear taller.
"Jebicus be praised. You are the most beautiful woman I have
ever beheld in my life," he said. "Please, come in."
The young woman strutted into Biddle's private chamber, leaving a
wake of lavender perfume behind her, until she stood across from his desk. He
licked his lips, ogling the woman before him with lustful delight, a vulpine
smile once again forming on his face.
The young woman returned his ogling with a coquettish smile. A bit
red in the cheeks, she did not say a word. She must be new, Biddle surmised,
brand new, and she was from Johnson. All for him to do with as he saw fit.
His licentious grin
widened, Biddle swiveling his chair from side to side. "Please,
sit..." He motioned towards the chair in front of his desk.
The young woman sat, making a cursory glance around the room, her
face having a most sublime countenance. Biddle continued to grin and beam.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She said nothing, now staring straight at Biddle with her grey-blue
eyes, stone cold and emotionless. Biddle shifted around in his chair some under
the intensity of her gaze, nonplussed with such an abrupt change from her
initial appearance in the office, almost as if that had been some type of
performance, to encourage him to let his guard down, if only momentarily.
They sat in silence for quite some time, the young woman regarding
him with that same icy expression, a predator eying its prey, a goddess looking
at an insect.
Beads of perspiration formed on Biddle's brow, a sinking feeling
forming in the pit of his stomach. This young woman, while the most beautiful
he'd ever seen, made him feel so small and insignificant, like a child in many
respects, while he was more than a generation older than her at least.
Yet the sense of fear remained, unremitting. He finally got up,
walked over to his liquor cabinet, and poured himself a glass of scotch.
"Oh, my, how silly of me, I should have asked first, can I get you
something to drink?"
Her eyes remained trained on him, the same chilling gaze. She
continued in her silence, legs crossed, arms folded across her prodigious bosom.
It was then that Biddle observed this young woman wore no shoes or
socks, and yet the soles of her feet appeared immaculate, at least of what he
could see. Neither did she carry a purse, nor any other personal effects. Not
even a cell phone. Strange. Very strange. But then again, there were many
things about this young woman he deemed strange.
"Water,"
she finally said.
Biddle cocked an eyebrow. This was a first, an escort asking for
water. The previous one hadn't, drinking copious amounts of hard liquor before
her bizarre tirade and manic fit, her mind broken by unseen supernatural
forces, according to her. In fact, now that he thought about it, nearly every
escort he'd had sent over from the Kit Kat Ranch was a lush. But this one...
He was tempted to call up Old Man Johnson and demand an explanation
for this unusual woman's behavior. But for now, he held off. There must be some
reason why Johnson sent this woman to him after the debacle with the last.
Biddle grabbed a bottled water from his mini fridge and handed it
to her. "Thank you," she said, unscrewing the lid and taking a small
sip. Her eyes stayed on Biddle the entire time.
Normally he was good at reading people, a skill he'd honed at an
early age. But this woman, she was a blank slate. He had no idea what her deal
was, though he got the distinct impression she didn't hold a favorable opinion
of him. Far from it. But this woman was a complete stranger.
Biddle took a deep sip of scotch, hoping to calm his nerves a bit.
It didn't. He was still quite ill at ease, shaking like a leaf. "So, you
gonna tell me your name?" he asked.
An icy, mordant grin now flitted across her face.
"Stella." He nodded. "Lovely name. And I'm Sullivan
Biddle."
"I know," she said. "I know everything about you,
Mr. Biddle. That's why I'm here.
Biddle returned to his desk, drink in hand, comforted by the
knowledge that the bottom left drawer held his .38 revolver. He surreptitiously
removed the weapon, then returned his attention to his mysterious guest.
"Okay. Let's make something perfectly clear," he said, emboldened by
the weapon in his hand. "You're here because I called Old Man Johnson
asking for an escort, something special, to make upfor the debacle that happened
last time. I don't know where these damned fool notions of yours came from, but
you don't seem to understand. I am the master, and you will obey me. Not the
other way around. You obey me. And quite frankly this talk bores me, so I think
it is time for—"
The woman laughed, grinning like a vampire, causing Biddle to
freeze mid-sentence. "Obey you? The bald little misogynistic man with a
Napoleon complex and delusions of grandeur? No. I think not. Not to mention
from what I hear a small—"
Riddle's lips violently twitched, his face hot with rage.
"Shut your god damned mouth!" He aimed the gun, pulling back the
hammer. But the woman remained seated, merely smiled.
"Go ahead, shoot, I dare you..." she said. And she winked
at him, a strange vertical wink from an inner eyelid, like a reptile.
Biddle cried out in terror, hairs on the back of his neck standing
on end. Whatever this woman was, she clearly wasn't human. He hadn't been
drinking enough to suffer from any type of drunken hallucination, not that he
had a habit of hallucinating in the past while inebriated.
He fired his weapon, aim perfect, right at her head, multiple times
in rapid succession. Only in this instance, it didn't have the desired effect,
the bullets vanishing into ether before they could hit their intended target,
while the woman, Stella, just sat there, completely unscathed, unmoved, and
unbothered.
"Do I have your attention now, Mr. Biddle?" she asked,
smiling. Or not exactly asked. Her lips hadn't moved. The words it seemed
reached him telepathically, and Sullivan Biddle in a hysteria of revulsion and
fear, almost wet himself.
The
gun fell from his hand, as Biddle weakly nodded, then finished
the rest of his drink in one giant gulp.
The door swung open,
and Negus rushed into the room. "Master Biddle, you be alright, sir?"
he asked, looking around wild-eyed.
Before he could say anything more, Stella was upon him. In one
graceful, superhuman movement, she grabbed him by the throat and broke his
neck, letting his lifeless body fall to the floor like a discarded rag.
Biddle leaped out of his chair. "You killed Negus, you
witch!"
The woman said nothing at first, studying Biddle with that same icy
gaze as she sat back in her chair. Then she spoke, aloud this time. "We
both know you never cared about your manservant, a means of twisted amusement
for you and nothing more. That's what human beings are to you, objects to be
used and discarded as you see fit, to be objectified and humiliated as you see
fit. Truth be told, Mr. Biddle, you are a very sick man. Unfortunately for you,
I'm a thousand times worse. Now sit down..."
Biddle fell back into his chair, eyes wide with fear. "Who,
what are you? What do you want?"
"Who I am is irrelevant and none of your concern. As for what
I want, well, that's a bit complicated." She paused for a moment, taking
another sip of her bottled water. "That business last time, that 'debacle'
that incensed you so with the escort Old Man Johnson sent you, well, that
wasn't supposed to happen. It was a defect with the model, an unfortunate side
effect that happens from time to time. Consider this 'covering all our
bases.'"
Biddle was quite bemused. "Say what?! You mean the woman from
last time, she was tellin’ the truth? All that talk about cloning and mind
control, blood drinkin’ lizards and telepathic surveillance and... good god,
that's sick.
Stella smiled. "You're one to talk, Mr. Biddle. You're one to
talk." Biddle gulped. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"
Stella eyed him in
silence for some time, an evil smirk on her face. "I haven't decided
yet..." she said.
Biddle sat bolt upright in his seat, armpits drenched with sweat.
"Please...I'll give you whatever ya want! Please.
Stella licked her lips, forked tongue flicking out like a snake.
"Anything?"
Biddle nodded ecstatically, simpering and pleading. "Yes, yes,
anything!"
Stella smiled. "Then give me your congregation, your
followers, your 'flock,' whose praise and adoration you care about above all
else..."
Biddle scowled at Stella with a bestial leer. "Never...they're
mine, mine, mine! All mine! You can't take them from me! They're mine!" he
raged, standing with such force he knocked his chair over, hands clenched into
fists. When he saw her sardonic grin intact however, he changed tactics.
"Please...no...you don't understand... they make me what I am, give my
life meaning, I'd be nothing without them.
"Without their blind and fervent devotion and serving as a
source of psychic energy to feed your ego you mean? Or do you actually care
what happens to the damaged waifs and miscreants that make up your pitiful
cult?" She leaned forward in her chair, her voice taking on a soft,
seductive whisper. "Give them to me, little man, or I shall have you..."
Biddle shuddered, finding himself in quite a quandary. He lived off
his cult, not simply their praise and adoration, but financially they supported
his lavish lifestyle. To lose them all in one fell swoop would be a massive
blow, one he might never recover from.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he considered his options. There had
to be something he could do, to at least buy himself some time, maybe even
allowing him the chance to force a more amenable solution to this matter.
Finally, he came up with a plan. "Can I address my congregation one final
time, I mean before you take them?"
Stella stared at him
in utter bemusement. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Just to say goodbye," Biddle said. "I've grown
quite fond of some of them, and they will be difficult to replace. I shall..
.miss them..."
Stella considered this. "Very well," she finally said.
"You have fifteen minutes. I suggest you summon them now.
Biddle pressed the intercom on his desk. "My children, convene
with me in the Main Hall for an emergency meeting..."
He wiped an arm over his face, hands trembling, then helped himself
to one last glass of scotch. Once finished he exited his private chamber and
made his way to the Main Hall. Stella followed, and found a spot at the back of
the room, watching as the three dozen or so congregants and cult members filed in.
They seemed perplexed at her presence in their inner sanctum, but
said nothing. She stood in silence, observing all that transpired, hands on her
hips.
Biddle stood at the lectern, his gaze flickering with a certain
dull approval over the faces of those assembled. All save for Stella, whom he
pretended to ignore. They all stared at him in silence, waiting for him to
speak.
"My children, it is time for a parting of ways, for I must now
go on a journey...a very special journey.. .one I may never return from. Just
know my children that the light of Jebicus and the Almighty Father in heaven
shines down upon you, and that you have served both they and I well... but
before I go I want you to look behind you, look behind you at that woman, that
woman right there, the reason I must go on this journey and leave you all
behind... I am saying unto thee my children, I am telling you right now that
that fuckin bitch is not real... she is a witch and a demon, the Whore of
Babylon incarnate, an expert in carnality, and must be destroyed! We shall burn
her at the stake, her dark sorcery no match for the power of our faith!
Together, my children, we shall—"
Biddle froze,
staring in terror as he beheld the faces of his three dozen congregants, all
stone cold and emotionless, their eyes solid black and monochromatic.
His gaze then fell upon Stella, who shrugged. "I'm telepathic,
Mr. Biddle, knew what you were planning the moment it entered your brain. To be
perfectly honest I'm the one who put the idea there..."
Biddle almost broke down right then and there. "But why?
Why?"
Stella smiled, that same horrible grin that made Biddle's skin
crawl, her eyes the same monochromatic solid black shade of the three dozen
individuals whose minds she now controlled. Malevolent puppets of madness.
"Because I was bored and it amused me, the reason why I do
anything. I'm sure you can relate, Mr. Biddle. But most of all? Because I
can..." She paused for a moment before saying to her mind-controlled
congregation: "Kill him..."
In seconds they were upon Biddle, with no chance to flee, and he
was quickly overwhelmed. He cowered on the ground, forearms extended in front
of his face in a pathetic attempt to shield himself from those who were once
his rank-and-file loyal adherents, his flock, who now proceeded to pummel and
kick him senseless and rip him apart. A modern-day drawing and quartering.
It lasted for several minutes, Sullivan Biddle dying a slow,
gruesome, and agonizing death, though some might argue one he deserved. As the
life drained from his mortal husk, his last thoughts were on Old Man Johnson,
Stella, and the denizens of the Kit Kat Ranch, and their invisible masters.
"Damn you," he said, cursing them all before he finally
died, falling into the void where only oblivion awaited him.
As she watched Sullivan Biddle die, Stella, a hybrid who went by
the stage name of Jezebel de Sade, smiled. She'd never intended to honor any
deal, already had her mind made up on her course of action. Biddle was never
really a significant threat, but they couldn't afford to take any chances.
Exposure was a risk that could never be taken, no matter how remote.
But it had proven a boon for Stella and those she served. More
slave labor for the Kit Kat Ranch, either as prospective talent or for other,
more sordid tasks, menial labor and the like for one of the underground desert
bases where her people resided.
And after they had outlived their usefulness, they could serve in
more practical ways: as dinner courses.
THE END
