This story is rated R. Enjoy the Britney Spears concert. And the killers.
Wednesday June 1, 2005
I stood chatting to Selena at the coliseum ticket booth. I had been dying to go out with her, but she made the mistake of telling me where she worked, purposefully I suspect. She was exceedingly private. A mystery. But beautiful.
“So you get off at five? Have dinner with me Selena. Let’s continue that great conversation we had the other day.” I hoped she thought it was great too. She made a point of telling me exactly which booth she worked in. I was so smitten with her I failed to observe who was in line. It was Ashley, my girlfriend from years earlier. I noticed a French-cut three karat diamond engagement ring on her finger.
“Hi Bobby. Still chasing girls. Still the same old Bobby. She noted Selena’s name tag, “Selena, don’t waste your time with this one, he’s only after one thing.”
Selena was aggressive and backed me up, “Sure Bob, I’d love to have dinner.”
Ashley says, “Two tickets for Britney Spears,” slapped me with a nasty stare and swaggered by, trying to show off the superiority of her ass.
“Give me two for Britney too. Will you go with me?”
“You like Britney?”
“Not really, but why not? Let’s go together.”
“Sure . . . let’s do it. I have to go anyway. I warn you, I am a little crazy and may just hurt someone.”
“I think I’m in love already.”
Three Years Earlier
In 2002 I was working as manager of a health food store in an outlet mall. I loved working there; selling vitamins, protein, herbs for people beyond medical help, coming to see the local witchdoctor for magical potions and last hopes. I drove down the interstate in my retinal-scorching-red pick up truck, smoking a huge joint of red haired sensemilla—exotic aroma infesting my clothes—eyes half-closed and bloodshot.
While negotiating a simple right turn onto the offramp (since totaling seven cars I drive carefully and never speed) a guy in a silver Lexus sports coupe aggressively tried to pass me on the minuscule shoulder, almost killing me. He forced his way onto the ramp, ahead of me, but I had no place to go. It was either die beneath the steely ram of an eighteen wheel semi or chance driving into a jagged ravine filled with rock to possibly make it to the offramp. I succeeded, but barely.
Miraculously, he was headed to the mall also and parked outside the high end clothing section, probably to buy himself a new $7000.00 Brioni suit. I emerged from my truck, raging in a fulguration of seething anger, explosively vicious, wearing a wretched scowl.
“What the fuck is wrong with you man? You almost killed me back there,” I blasted, but kept my gun holstered and hidden. He completely ignored me, too busy to pay mind to societal riff-raff. As I approached, my heart felt constricted. My ex-girlfriend was in his passenger’s seat wearing a wardrobe upgrade and new blond hair with extensions. She looked like a goddess.
A high class smirk engraved his face, “Excuse me buddy . . . could you park your piece-of-shit ragamuffin truck a few spots down, preferably a few miles away? This is a Lexus.”
His life hung by the most fragile of threads, but I was almost paralyzed by Ashley’s presence. She arose from the car, discerned my bearing and brushed me off like dandruff from her silk sheathed shoulder, her face looking skyward, the scene viewed down her regal nose of nobility. Just last week I refused to make love because she was wired on crack cocaine. How things change in seven days. I said, “You almost killed me back there. I was driving the speed limit and you barreled around me like an idiot . . . doing at least 80 miles per hour.”
“Yeah, this baby hugs those curves. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember seeing you. Now go to your job and tell them to issue new shirts because that one if fucking ugly as sin: puke green.”
My hands were trembling in torturous anger. He was one hair from death but I stayed outwardly calm, inside a tornado of madness brewed. I said, “Ashley. What are you doing with this fool?”
I hit a nerve. He spun around and asked, “You know this guy Ashley?”
“No. I’ve never seen him before. How do you know my name? Honey, I’m scared.”
Oh that bitch. I can’t believe she did that.
He wrapped his arms around her and they kissed. I sharply attack, “So dude, enjoy that kiss? So . . . how does my dick taste? Yeah she knows me. We lived together for two years up until last week. Her mother’s name is Rhonda and father’s is James. She has a heart tattoo just above her muff.”
He was steamed in turmoil, but scared as he saw the fire of sadistic violence in my eyes. He said, “Stay away from us. I would kick your ass, but I don’t want to get my hands dirty from your low class filth.”
I pointed at my skull, “You remember this face. You remember this piece-of-shit red truck. I’m going to get you when you least expect it. It might be five years from now. I promise you, when you die, this will be the last face you ever see.”
As I walked off I noticed a blue bumper sticker that read No Fear. Ashley glanced back at me, her eyes almost saying I’m sorry. Tears rolled down my face. I really had loved her and tried to help. I wasn’t rich enough to buy her $300.00 panties, but she knew I did all I could. I gave her everything I possibly could. It just wasn’t enough.
Friday Night June 3, 2005
Selena was perhaps too wild for me and I too wild for her, a combustible mixture of incendiary passion. I was nice, but a hair-trigger anger complex—unpredictable and psychotic—especially with guys. I treated women like gold and would die to protect them. If you wanted to survive, better turn your head away when I’m with her.
We parked on the beach in my piece-of-shit red truck, smoking marijuana and steaming the windows with heated passion, hands in dark places, sinful faces. She took a massive gulp of Wild Turkey and shared it with a kiss, hot liquor fuming from our throats, wet tongues engrafted in lust.
She took her top off and said, “Fuck me. Right here. Right now.”
Luckily I had a wide bench seat, ugly and gray, but useful. And so we as she wanted fucked. No love. Just she and I quelling an unquenchable scorching itch.
The Coliseum Parking Lot
We arrived half dressed and partially satisfied, though our wicked hunger still thrived. We smoked more weed and drank more whiskey—a good buzz ensued. She said, “We’ll need this,” and dumped a gargantuan pile of crystal methamphetamine on the back of my Ozzy Osbourne Blizzard of Oz CD case.
“Sounds good to me.” I played with her breasts as she pulverized chemical substrates into fine dust. “You are so hot Selena.”
She wedged out two colossal lines and rolled up a twenty, a makeshift snorting apparatus. “Don’t worry, we can fuck again after the show, all night long.”
“Jeez I feel like a male whore. I don’t normally do—”
“Shut the fuck up Bob. What? You don’t normally fuck on the first date? You wanna lose your chances, just keep bullshitting. You almost sound like a brokenhearted wuss. Don’t tell me you’re more than a piece of meat. You have feelings,” she giggles in high pitched tones.
“I was joking.”
We feverishly kissed again, my priapism throbbing, her panties soaked. The words we just fucked tattooed across our brazen foreheads, two mindless sluts satisfying endless animalistic desire. I snorted the fat line of meth as scorching fire ingressed betwixt my nostrils, bitter chemistry drizzling down my throat.
“Jesus Christ, what was that? An entire gram?”
“Praise the good lord it was. No worries, I have an eightball in my purse.”
In the parking row before us, I saw a silver Lexus with a No Fear bumper sticker in blue. Just what the doctor ordered.
The Britney Spears Concert
Not that I’m into Britney or the opening act, The Pussy Cat Dolls, but I liked a coliseum packed with women. I felt like a gladiator. We passed through security without being searched, a perk of her working there. We were throttled and wired with high voltage highness. I was so high, I couldn’t feel floor beneath my feet. We missed the Pussy Cat Dolls and were just in time. The lights dimmed.
Britney Spears Concert Killers
Selena said, “I have to piss. Wait here and I’ll be back in a minute.”
Perfect. A window to find that fool . . . Ashley’s fiancé. I knew how Ashley was, always in charge even if the guy was rich. She was the queen of narcissism and I knew no man could break her pattern. I could sense their presence just ahead in the darkened crowd. Britney opened with In The Zone. Oh how I hated that over-produced lip-synced musical drive. The girl looked dosed on Xanax and liquor and can’t sing anyway. She did look scrumptious in her skin tight black jumpsuit.
I see Ashley meandering through the crowd behind me, assuming she just came back from the restroom. I mentally formed a B-line trajectory and pinpointed his location with precision long before she found him.
Britney ended her first song and slurred, “How y’all doin’ Biloxi Mississippi?” then blasted into a sloppy Oops I Did It gain.
There he was, still with that stupid smirk, wearing a freaking suit to a Britney Spears concert. What a dufus. I approached like a ninja, heart chemically pounding like a cardiac jack hammer, palms sweaty, urge surmounting. I unsheathe my blade which is coated in unreflective black Teflon to remain clandestine. I stood right behind him, so close I could smell the stench of his putrid cologne Eternity For Men. I hate that odor—like Wrigley’s Juicy-Fruit Gum on steroids.
In my masterful periphery I studied the crowd’s faces, instinctively knowing where all witness eyes focused. A quick head turn and the micro-window was at hand. My razored knife soared with god-like exactitude as I stepped beside him, his eyes laser locked on my face as my finger pointed to my skull. I screamed remember this face—he read my lips—blade slipping silently betwixt two young girls. A powerful incision, ear to ear, sliced deep to spine. I pulled it back so quickly the blood twirled from steel spattering the hairy bare leg of a rabid Britney fan, clean and unstained knife re-sheathed all within one second.
I turned to see Selena, a vicious intensity in her eyes. We were the only people not watching the concert. She was oblivious to my awareness. I saw her blade thrust forward like a cobra strike, slicing the back of his neck, cleaving spinal cord and finishing the circumference of my initial cut. Was this the hurt she’d planned all along? Like me, she slung her razored edge blood free and re-sheathed it in the brim of her jeans. Her eyes converged with mine. She knew I knew she had cut the back of his neck—and winked at me.
His body twitched in vulgar fashion whilst head slid from neck, a pristine wound with flat cut surface, our killing strokes enjoined in love. She jumped on entwining her legs around me, tongues twirling together. Our stares turned to him in time to catch the first heartbeat of excitement, a geyser of blood squirted, Britney throated the words Hit Me Baby—a thunderstorm of scarlet drenched the crowd as they roared in approval. It was spectacular, magnanimous and brilliant. A relevant killing. The crowd thought it part of the show as his carcass fell, a lifeless lump, trampled beneath a thousand dancing feet.
We maddeningly kissed, my groping hands squeezing her tight ass against my loins. She placed her lips to my ear and said, “I saw you cut him first. What a coincidence: to kill the same victim simultaneously in perfect harmony.”
Ashley tripped on his decapitated head, falling in his viscid blood pool, her $3000.00 snow white Gucci dress splattered in red.
“We were meant to be together Selena!”
“Oh my God . . . your ex is Stephen’s fiancé? How fucking cool is that? I’ve planned his murder for three years. He raped and beat me half to death. I owed him.”
She lowered my jeans and we frenetically humped while standing, making love before all eyes, Britney singing an energetic version of Hit Me Baby One More Time.
We left the concert unquestioned and unsuspected . . . throbbing from all the excitement.
- This story is partially true; however, I have never killed anyone. Or it’s probably completely comprised of 100% fiction . . . maybe.
- Selena and I had an intense sexual relationship for three more months until some insane escaped convict crushed her skull with a ball peen hammer outside Buddy’s Lounge behind the dumpster on September 9th, 2005. She was probably squatting to urinate–not lady like–but I loved her anyway.
- Ashley’s fiancé, Stephen Johnson, was announced murdered, decapitated by one psychopath. Two Vietnamese witnesses claimed to see a young dark haired woman cut him from behind, but couldn’t describe her face.
- Ashley became a crack whore and prostitute. She died of a cocaine overdose in March 2008 in an alley in downtown New Orleans. Just another dead harlot in the nation’s murder capital.
- Eight days after Selena’s murder, I won $10,000.00 in the Beau Rivage Casino. That’s karma. Selena loving me from beyond the grave. Thanks baby:)
- Selena’s killer was executed by lethal injection on this celebratory day January 25th. He murdered my true soul mate. May she party in Hell until I join her.
