Latrodectus

Chapter One: My Lovelies
The world doesn’t understand me. They think I’m a monster, and that my work is grotesque and horrific. What they fail to realize is that I preserve beauty. If I let my lovelies grow old, they will decay and become wrinkled abominations. What I do to them is often necessary due to their resistance.

It is rather unfortunate how they struggle, scream, and cry. They don’t understand my work either. If they did, they would embrace the process, however unpleasant it may be. It certainly is no easy task to preserve something as natural as warm human flesh after life has left it, but you can learn quite a lot from having a job at a morgue.

I know what you may be thinking, but I have never taken a body from work. I may sneak a few embalming supplies out from time to time, but I wouldn’t lower myself to using one of the badly damaged, or just generally hideous specimens that go through that place. I usually find one of my darling lovelies over dating services on the internet. Many sad and lonely women out there have their beauty go unappreciated. I aim to change that with my work.

Once I have them in my workshop, I put them on my table. After they’ve been properly strapped in, I use a variety of chemical products with long and boring clinical names to touch up any superficial cuts from the acquisition process, and fix any blemishes on the skin. Then, it comes time to preserve their beauty with an injection of embalming fluid.

This usually causes my lovelies to quickly lose their painful lives. What I have to give them is greater, though. How many women’s grooming products are dedicated to the idea of eternal youth and beauty? I can give that to them. Isn’t the suffering existence in a world of constant turmoil a small price to pay for every woman’s dream?

Anyway, there are a lot of uninteresting details about the process. Fluid needs to be drained, a mechanical pump is used, and several more injections are necessary. When the process is complete, and the injection sites are concealed, they always look so beautiful. With their appearance preserved so perfectly, I often can’t help myself. I simply must take them for my own.

It is so magical to bond with someone once their beauty has been made permanent. I would love nothing more than to keep them all, but my home workshop is not large enough to house my collection. So regrettably, I must often let go of one of my lovelies and dispose of them in the only way I know how to keep my work intact. I clean and dress them up to the best of my ability, and lay them in a field or a garden.

I have a few words with my lovelies and take a picture to remember them by before I reluctantly leave them. I often pray that animals and insects leave them be and do not disturb their preserved radiance. Recently, it seems my work has garnered the attention of the police and local news. They’re calling me “The Embalmer”. What a crude name for a beauty preservation artist.

Chapter Two: The Test
Men don’t understand me. They see me as an object, a prize to be won in some misguided competition of masculinity. It’s really rather pathetic, but I could at least ignore those Neanderthals and they usually go away after a while. The real animals are the ones who seek out weaker prey and think they can do whatever they please and they’ll get away with it. Those are the kind of men that inspired me to start fighting back.

Of course, in order to do that, I have to go where they hunt and make myself appear weak. Most of the local dive bars are host to a whole myriad of unsavory characters, so I never have to go far. It helps my case if I go in looking reluctant, like a lost college girl whose sorority dared her to buy them beer. The most difficult part is finding a balance between timid and sexy in what I wear.

My blonde hair usually gets me noticed pretty quickly, so I try to mess it up a bit to go along with the ruse. I use very minimal makeup and a pair of thick eyeglasses that makes me look more like a bookworm. I always make sure to pick out an outfit that shows off just a little bit of skin, but then I accessorize it with the kind of cheap costume jewelry that a poor college student could afford.

It’s a delicate process and sometimes I have to adjust the minor details to make myself more (or less) appealing. After all, that’s what the ladies’ room is for. Not that any of the bars I frequent have particularly clean wash rooms, but I don’t go there for quality service. Some nights I hang out in the corner or by the end of the bar, waiting for one of them to spot me. Then there are nights when I know exactly which would-be predator has his eyes on me.

Usually, I’ll have a glass of not very fine wine and a man will approach offering to buy me another. I may accept, but I always make sure to pace myself. He’ll usually be drinking a beer, though the older ones tend to go for whiskey and scotch. I’ll pretend to let my guard down and start to casually flirt, giving me an opportunity to have my hands near his drink.

Nowadays, women tend to be more careful about letting their drinks out of their sight. Men, however, don’t give even the first thought to the possibility of being drugged. Even if you warned them, they’d probably laugh and joke about how getting slipped a roofie probably means they got laid as well. What they don’t realize is that sometimes they will be drugged. And there are far worse things that can be done to them while they’re unconscious.

By now, I know exactly when I need to ask “Do you want to get out of here?” in order for him to pass out in the dimly lit parking lot. I quickly drag him to his car or truck and take out his wallet. I take whatever cash is in there and I look at his driver’s license to find an address. I drive him there and scope out the place. Usually, the guy lives alone and there’s no problem. If he doesn’t, I just quietly drop him off and leave.

If the coast is clear, I bring him inside. Sometimes this is particularly difficult because men can be quite heavy compared to women. Once inside, I go to his bedroom and strip him naked. I do the same and lie next to him. After a few hours, I give him an injection, providing just enough time for him to wake up and play my little game. It usually happens that morning after sunrise. He’ll be foggy and have memory loss, but it is this very moment that I test him.

I tell him that we had drunken sex the night before, and that I was a virgin before that. I also bring up the lack of birth control and allude to the possibility of pregnancy. Very rarely do the targets I pick handle this news with respect and kindness. If they did, I would give them an injection from the other vial, let them rest in bed, and quietly leave. However, this is a test that most of these selfish, shallow man-children consistently fail.

It can get rough, and sometimes his anger is a bit physical. But it doesn’t take long for all that activity to wear on him. Within a few moments, he begins to feel dizzy and lightheaded. Not long after that, he falls to the floor and loses consciousness. In less than an hour, he’ll die from a nearly untraceable poison. Once he’s motionless, I tuck him back into bed and walk away, as if nothing happened. Afterwards, I go back to the bar to retrieve my car.

The public eye has noticed what I’ve been doing, in a way. There are reports of dead bodies turning up as the result of “unknown causes”, but most are written off as natural. While I prefer anonymity, part of me wishes I could tell the world how I fight for women. I rid the world of the lecherous, misogynistic mouth-breathers that would steal a young girl’s innocence and refuse to take responsibility for the consequences. I am nothing if not fair, though. After all, I always give them a choice.

Chapter Three: The Meeting
It seems the conveniences of the modern world can be… fragile. The search for my latest lovely was interrupted by a sudden and unexpected loss of internet connection. A loss made all the more devastating as my need and desire to add to my collection grew stronger. Tonight, I will attempt to fulfill that need “the old fashioned way”, as it were, by going to a local watering hole.

She first catches my eye as I walk into the bar, feigning confidence. It has been a while since I’ve interacted socially without the aid of a “Backspace” key to filter out some of my less appealing thoughts. But she doesn’t strike me as superficial, at least not enough to turn away a suitor at a minor slip of the tongue. No, I feel very differently about her.

Golden locks of hair shimmer from atop her head. Yet, it appears she either has difficulty styling it, or perhaps it has been disheveled from some rigorous activity. As I gaze upon her, I notice a large pair of corrective eyewear and some less-than-fashionable jewelry. She looks young, far too young to be in a filthy place like this. I decide I must approach her, and ensure that none of these vermin get to her.

I approach modestly, but not with trepidation. I tell her she’s far too beautiful to be in a den of debauchery where such beauty will undoubtedly go unappreciated. I also warn her, though not with intent to frighten, that she should proceed cautiously with so many womanizing scoundrels about. She receives my words well and introduces herself. Her name is Tanya.

Her voice is incredible, timid yet stern. Something about it seems out of place, as though beneath her reluctant exterior there was inner strength. Her spirit or her soul perhaps, but of course it can be difficult to say about someone you’ve just met. I feel something different about her, though. Something… special, I suppose you would call it.

We talk for what seems like hours, on various subjects. Likes, dislikes, hobbies, et cetera. Yet somehow, I can’t tear my eyes away from her magnificent beauty. If only she didn’t hide it so! All she would need is a bit of hairspray, contact lenses, a nice dress, perhaps some better jewelry, and a few very minor touch-ups with a makeup brush. Of course, that sounds like a lot, but it would be a very simple makeover and she would look ravishing! Then again, if that happened, these barroom troglodytes would be all over her.

After conversing for a few more minutes, I cordially invite Tanya to stay the evening at my humble abode. She’s had a few glasses of wine after all, and is in no state to drive. I treat her with respect every step of the way, as a good gentleman should. I hold the door for her and carefully guide her head into the car so she doesn’t bump into the roof.

We arrive at my place and I show her to the guest room, warning her not to go into the basement because it has a rat problem and has recently been fumigated. Though, the truth is that my lovelies are down there. I don’t yet expect her to understand what my collection is and why I keep it. For now, it is better to lie to her about such things.

I bring her some sweatpants and a shirt to sleep in, both of which are probably three sizes too big to fit her small frame. She asks me why I haven’t tried to make a move on her. I tell her I admire her beauty far too much to take advantage of her drunken state. She laughs and confesses that she was merely pretending to be drunk so I’d take her home. She claims she can hold her liquor much better than that and even offers to take a field sobriety test in the hallway.

She walks a straight line over to me and we start kissing. We go into my bedroom and fall onto the bed. She asks if I have protection, which I affirm and she says “Good. While you take care of that, I’ll slip into something more comfortable.” She leaves the room for what seems like an eternity. I prepare the contraceptive and anxiously await her return.

Finally, she comes back wearing the sweatpants and t-shirt I’d given her and we both share a good laugh about it. Stripping them away, she reveals a very enticing set of lingerie. She climbs on top of me and we are entwined at last. Her soft, warm flesh feels like pure bliss as I stare endlessly into her deep, enchanting eyes. It is all so perfect, until she pulls my head next to hers and bites me on the neck.

I push her away for a moment, and see that the look of desire in her eyes has changed to one of hatred and anger. She lunges back at me, trying to scratch and claw with an insatiable bloodlust. I grab her by the throat and begin squeezing until the light in her eyes is extinguished. I thought she was different from the others. It’s a shame she’ll be just another part of my collection tomorrow. Right now, I feel a bit weary. I’ll just sleep beside her for tonight.

Chapter Four: The Basement
It’s been a slow night at the bar, and hardly anyone is making a move. I begin to wonder if I need to adjust my wardrobe when suddenly he walks in. Immediately, I know that his little grin is a façade and that he’s hiding something. He sees me and already starts making his way over. I can tell this one’s going to be tricky.

He can barely hide his eagerness to talk to me. I get the “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” routine from him, though he phrases it a touch more eloquently. He claims that I’m far too beautiful to be surrounded by such a crass and ill-mannered bunch of ruffians. I admit it is a tad classier than the usual array of terrible pickup lines men use on me, but it is a means to the same end.

I smile and introduce myself. He says his name is Jacob. He seems charming enough. Had I not been so intent on finding his dark side, I may have even been fooled into thinking he was a nice guy. But I can see in his eyes that he’s hiding something and I am going to find out what it is.

He bores me for what feels like an eternity with meaningless small talk and I pretend to be interested. What’s worse is how he keeps staring at me. I get the feeling that he’s admiring me, but also judging my intentionally modest wardrobe choices. Then again, if I were wearing a sexy dress, this creep probably wouldn’t have the balls to approach me.

Unfortunately, the bastard invites me back to his place before I get a chance to drug his whiskey. I can’t say “no” if I want to keep him on the hook long enough to find out what he’s hiding. So, I’ll just have to be extra careful and rely on the element of surprise. I pretend to be tipsy so he walks me out to his car. He holds the door and touches my hair as I sit down in the passenger seat. I suppose he thinks he’s being a gentleman.

We arrive at his place, which I expect to be a filthy bachelor pad littered with porn. Instead, it is a well-kept house with enough room for a small family. He warns me not to go into the basement, claiming it has a rat problem. But I immediately know I have to find a way to get down there. You see, it’s always the one place they tell you not to go that will house their darkest secrets.

He shows me to his guest room and quickly retrieves some sweatpants and a t-shirt for me to sleep in. I turn on the charm and ask why a guest room and pajamas instead of his bed and my underwear. He says “Because I respect your beauty too much to take advantage of you in such a manner.” I laugh and tell him I was only pretending to be drunk so he’d take me home. Jokingly, I offer to prove it by walking a straight line.

I walk right up to him and we start making out. We go to his bedroom and I ask him if he has protection. He says he does, so I tell him to put it on while I change. I know this is my chance to see the basement while he anxiously awaits my return. In order to make my excuse valid, I quickly change into the sweatpants and shirt before I go.

I make my way down the dark steps, feeling around for a light switch or a flashlight. There is an awful stench coming from deep within the basement. It smells like chemicals and death, and for a moment I consider that maybe Jacob was telling the truth. Then, a thin string brushes past my face and I reach for it. It has a little plastic piece on the end and I realize it must be a pull string for a light bulb. I pull down on it and the room is illuminated.

The cold, stone walls are lined with dead bodies of women. All of them are dressed in various outfits, most of which are sexualized. I can also see makeup and jewelry carefully placed on each one. It takes everything I have not to scream in horror at the sight of them. Jacob is worse than any of the pigs I’ve tested before. He doesn’t just objectify women, he kills them.

I quietly turn out the light and make my way back up the stairs. I go back into his bedroom and joke about how I changed into the sweatpants because they were more comfortable. I take them off, get on top of him and we start to have sex. God, even now he can’t stop staring at me.

I can’t stop thinking about what he did to those women. How he killed them, dressed up their bodies, and did God knows what else with them. It’s all so sick. I pull him close, pretend to bite him on the neck, and inject him with the poison.