Writer's Wednesday 39: Sporting Event

On my blog, I do an 'event' called Writer Wednesdays. I post a prompt and others(including me) write something based on that prompt.

     Crack!  Bounce.  Swing.  Crack!  Bounce.  Crack!

     Tennis is all about rhythm.  Sex is all about rhythm.

     Bounce.  Swing.  Crack!

     You know what else is all about rhythm?

     Bounce.  Crack!

     Stabbing someone an efficient amount of times before they can scream for help.

     Bounce.  Swing.  Crack!

     What takes no real rhythm is gripping someone’s hair, pulling their head back, and slitting their throat.  No screaming either.

     Bounce.  Crack!

     For the first time, I look up at my opponent.  And I lose my rhythm.

     Bounce…  Bounce.  Bounce.  Bounce.

     Holy s**t, he looks just like Vaughn.  Only without the fifty or so stab wounds I put through his chest and gut when I found him ploughing my wife - in my own goddamn bed!

     Of course, I was off my game and I did not finish him off before he started screaming.  Lucky for me, turns out my wife was into BDSM - at least she was with Vaughn.  She was tied up, blindfolded, and had ear plugs jammed in her ears.  She may have felt the blood spraying on her and heard his muffled screams.

     “Vaughn?”  She’d said.  I kept her in suspense a moment while I went to the kitchen to get a clean knife; I didn’t like the idea of their blood mingling.

     I climbed on top of her and she let out a low giggle, deep down in her throat and chest.  I put my hand around behind her head, wrapping my fingers in her hair and massaging her scalp as I kissed her from chest up to her jaw and lips.

     “You had me worried for a moment, baby,” she said as I pulled out one of her earplugs.

     “Miss me?”  I hissed in her ear and felt her tense as I pulled off the blindfold.  Her blue eyes lit up with fear as I gave her a few seconds to take in the new paint job I’d given our room with Vaughn’s blood before yanking her head back and cutting her taut throat.  Red always was my favorite color…

     But f**k, back to the matter at hand, this sucker looked just like Vaughn.  A brother maybe?  Vaughn had been missing for going on five weeks now.  I hadn’t bothered to report my wife missing, after all, she was still on the property - about nine feet under the begonias.  I’d decided to plant Vaughn under the mums.

     “Jeff Skinner, right?”  The guy asked, jogging over to retrieve the little neon green ball I’d failed to hit back.

     “Yeah.  And you are…?  I don’t think I have seen you on the court before.”

     “Neil Garner, I’m just visiting town.  I think you knew my brother, Vaughn?  He mentioned you and your wife a few times when we talked on the phone.”

     “Oh f**k,” I thought to myself.  “Oh yeah, we know Vaughn.  Cool guy, shame he’s gone missing… I assume that’s why you’re here,” I said, trying to keep my cool.

     “I was afraid of that,” Neil sighed.  “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.  I was hoping maybe someone he knew would know something about his whereabouts.  Maybe I could ask your wife-”

     “Out of the question,” I waved him off.  “She is sick, hasn’t left the house in days.”  As Neil knelt to pick up the ball, I wondered if I could hit him hard enough with my racket to knock him out.  If I hit him at the base of the skull where it met the spine…

     “I’m sorry to hear that.  I hope she gets better soon.”

     “Well, thank you.  Hey,” I asked, gripping my racket tightly and approaching him, “have you gotten a chance to ask anyone else about Vaughn’s disappearance?”

     “No, the tennis court was my first stop.  Wanted to blow off some steam and I remembered Vaughn mentioning you played, so I thought maybe I’d get lucky and run into you.”

     “Yeah, lucky,” I smirked, drawing my arm back and turning my racket sideways.  I swung, the metal edge smack him right at the base of the skull.  He toppled forward from his squatting position and I kicked him hard in the side of the head to insure unconsciousness.  He was out cold.

I looked around the empty court before kneeling beside him and rolling him over so that he was facing the sky.  I had to be clean here: no blood.  I gently wrapped my hands around his neck and began to squeeze, pressing my thumbs down hard on his windpipe.  Even unconscious, I could feel him struggling for air.  I decided something as I knelt there squeezing the life out of Neil Garner.  One: I would bury him under the marigolds.  Two, I like strangulation even better than stabbing or slitting.