Horror and Thriller Fiction posted February 26, 2014

This work has reached the exceptional level
Vigilante makes it a point to take a bite out of crime...


by Dean Kuch

The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

Sadly, many women have been killed over time, as nobody can guarantee the outcome of any rape. However, the huge plus-factor is that the discomfort and pain is such that the rapist would be disabled temporarily, giving you time to get away and get help." Sonette Ehlers, creator of the Rapex device


This is a medieval instrument, based on male-hating notions and fundamentally misunderstands the nature of rape and violence against women in this society. It is vengeful, horrible, and disgusting. The woman who invented this needs help.”—Charlene Smith, rape-prevention advocate

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Ghastly screams—bloodcurdling in shrillness and sheer intensity—echoed along the filthy confines of the narrow alleyway. Graffiti splashed the walls along its length, tattooing a tapestry of despair and depravity played out in paint upon the decaying brick and mortar. Foster Avenue was almost always deserted during this hour of early morning.

But ... not tonight.

In what was considered by most to be one of the worst neighborhoods of the city, only the bogus brave (or seriously brain damaged) were foolhardy enough to be in this part of town after dark.

Increasing in frequency, the frenetic howls died abruptly, swiftly swept away by brisk balmy breezes. Only the staccato clip-clop of harried footfalls clad in high-heeled shoes remained.

Soon, those too were whisked away, replaced by low, agonized moaning.




“Hey, Sammy-boy, check this shit out. That bitch got herself another one last night!”

Jimmy Palto tipped a half-empty beer toward the pretty blonde television reporter on the Channel 7 Eyewitness News. He clenched his meaty hand in a vice-like fist and shook it at the screen, causing the knuckles to go bone white.

“Wish I could get my mitts on that little bitch. That would be the last time she ever done that to another dude.”

He took a healthy swig from his bottle, finishing its contents.

“Mangling guys, well ... you know—down there. It just ain't right.”

“Hey, relax, you friggin' Neanderthal!” Sam lit a Marlboro prior to exiting the toilet, then jumped into the fray with both feet.

“If guys wouldn't go around raping defenseless women, Molly the Mangler would be out of a job. But—that ain't gonna' happen anytime soon—and she knows it.”

I hope ya' shook that little thing there that passes for a dick twice, my man," Jimmy retorted, “'cause she's far from defenseless. Now, tuck those tiny raisins you call balls between yer legs, and clam up. I wanna hear the rest of this...”

“... Molly the Mangler, as she's been dubbed by the media, has managed to elude the Hamilton County Police and local law enforcement's vice task units for nearly three years, carrying out her vigilante-style crusade on unsuspecting men foolish enough to attack her. While many tout her as a heroine, there are others in this community afraid that her actions could result in reprisals on prostitutes known to work in the area, as well as innocent young men and women who have nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes.

The suspect, whose name is being withheld pending identification, was found dead around six-thirty this morning in the alleyway, apparently from excessive blood loss. An autopsy is pending during the investigation ..."


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“Mark my words, Sammy-boy. I'm gonna' find that slut and carve my name into her ass. Just wait and see if I don't.”

Bored by the topic of conversation, Sam let out an exasperated sigh, exhaling a putrid plume of yellowish cigarette smoke. “A man's gotta' do what a man's gotta' do, Jimmy. Good luck with that. I gotta' get goin'.”

“You just make sure to keep that little pecker in your pants, Sammy-boy. Molly's still out there somewhere—and she'll keep doin' her thing—'til I catch up with her! I'm getting' that bitch ... tonight.”

Sam nodded in mock agreement, flipped Jimmy the bird, then slammed the sullied, decrepit apartment door upon leaving.

Sam Benton returned home, knowing full well that Jimmy would make good on his threat.




No two people were more different than Jimmy Palto and Sam Benton. While Sam was financially well off, Jimmy barely squeaked by on a meager pipe fitter's apprentice salary. After several impromptu meetings, the two soon became familiar acquaintances.

They'd met casually one evening, a little over a month ago, at Brannigan's Pub, located in the Oregon District. A historic section of the city, Sam rented an expansive—albeit, quite expensive—two-bedroom loft on the strip. A software programmer for a large security firm, Sam quickly realized that when you're good at what you do, and your services were in high demand, you could pretty much set your own hours. As a result, there were lots of late-night hours available for gathering Intel. The popular pub was a known hot-spot for all the latest gossip in and around the area. It wasn't the ambiance that drew Sam to Brannigan's each evening, nor the close proximity or atmosphere of the place. No, it was more about the things one could find out there that kept Sam coming back.

Jimmy worked for a local contractor in the district, initially enticed by the dinner menu Brannigan's had to offer. However, it wasn't just the reasonably priced steak dinners or hot wing appetizers that brought him in. It was the young college-aged girls who lived and went to school at the nearby university that lured him there. The promises of tender nubile flesh and pert breasts the pub served up to him. Inexperience in a cruel, callous world made them easy pickings for a guy like Jimmy. Their naïve, free spirited, fun-loving nature made them prime targets.

Jimmy took full advantage of that fact, time and time again.

Today had been the first Sam decided to accept one of Jimmy's numerous proposals to drop by his place for a beer. Helping a client in the west end of town, Sam was in the neighborhood that evening anyway; close enough to warrant the visit without it becoming an inconvenience.

As the events of the coming evening eventually played out, Sam would soon realize the visit had been well worth the trip.




Jimmy wallowed in his sweat-soaked bedsheets like a tuna out of water, gasping for air. His massive, tattooed arms flailed out, pounding the nightmarish apparition's head that had latched onto his manhood. He awoke suddenly, covered in perspiration. The LED clock on the dresser beamed a bright crimson 12:12 A.M. at him from across dimly-lit the room.

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The dream had been the same as it had for the past couple of weeks. He had her down on the pavement, in complete submission, pants around his ankles. Then, right before his throbbing member made contact with her lips, the girl beneath him shifted and changed, her face melting and liquefying like an ice cream cone on a sweltering summer day. Her razor-sharp teeth bit down—hard—bringing him to his knees. Rivulets of blood filled the gutters, far more than would be possible in the waking world. However, the realization did nothing to lessen the terror he'd felt while he was immersed in it. Everything around him turned a blood red. His mangled manhood went languid—lifeless.

With his surroundings and orientation finally returning, Jimmy furrowed his brow, squinting into the darkness beyond his bedroom window. The lights of the city twinkled in the distance, beckoning like an ancient, unknown solar system over an alien horizon.

Jimmy slid out of bed, getting dressed quickly. He knew what he had to do.

That uppity whore. She's out there tonight somewhere, I just know it. She's gotta' be stopped, and I'm just the prick to get the job done.




Glancing at her wristwatch for probably the tenth time in as many minutes, Jennifer Pruitt tugged at her tight-fitting skirt. After making some fine tuning adjustments to her cleavage, she walked on, satisfied with her efforts. Just one more nameless face on Sullivan Street, the tender nineteen-year-old runaway turned working girl was more than ready to close up shop for for the evening. However, that decision wasn't hers to make. Those matters fell squarely on the shoulders of her "employer", Baby Daddy Buster.

She strutted across the litter-strewn, neon-infused boulevard to the corner, kicking an empty bottle of Mad Dog across the street. It clanked and clattered along the fractured asphalt, finally disappearing down a sewer drain. Ever mindful of her surroundings, she realized just how much she loathed this neighborhood. For the past five years, she'd observed the declining number of countless respectable businesses that got tired of the robberies and killings, packing up their wares to move on to safer, greener, much more lucrative pastures. Hoisting one well-muscled leg up against the light post behind her, Jenny lit a cigarette ... and waited.

She didn't have to wait very long.

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“You working tonight, sweet thang?”

The man in the Caddy leered at Jennifer from behind a half-open window. He held up a wad of bills, waving them at her like a Geisha flaunting her ornate fans.

“I got lots of time on my hands, and more money 'n I know what to do with. I'd be happy to throw some of it your way. That is...if you're available.”

Jenny beamed a smile at him from her street lamp perch on the corner.

“I already got a date for the evening, sweetie. But thanks, just the same.”

With a grunt of disappointment and disgust, the old man quickly drove away.

As Jenny stood watching the Cadillac's taillights wink out of sight around the corner of the block, she was struck hard at the base of her skull from behind. Cascades of bluish-white stars danced before her, invading her vision. A thick warmth trickled down her forehead, running into her eyes, causing them to burn and sting. The pain in her head intensified as her unseen assailant grabbed her by the scalp, dragging her kicking and screaming into the adjacent alley.

"It stops tonight, bitch! Hah— I got you now, and you're gonna' pay for what you been doin' ..."

A series of muffled, strangled shrieks escaped from the darkened egress, followed by the cacophonous pop-pop-pop-ing of gunfire.

“C'mon, girl! I'm sure everyone still lucid in this God-forsaken neighborhood heard those shots. We have to move ... right now!”

Jennifer slithered out from beneath the hefty man's corpse, reaching for the hand offered by her unknown savior.

“I—he ...”

“Never mind the explanations now. Can you walk?”

Realization slowly began to take hold, as Jennifer brushed bits of brain and skull from her coat with disgust before managing a strangled reply.

“Sure, I ... I think so. He clocked me pretty good; I'm still a little ... woozy.”

“Good, woozy means your brain's working. The name's Samantha. I work these streets too. I can't comprehend why in God's name you'd be out here workin' with nothing to protect yourself.”

“Bu-but you killed that guy!” Jennifer's eyes widened as she shook her head, trying desperately to clear the cobwebs.

“No shit, better him than you, right? Life's a bitch for rapists and murderers.”

The svelte, statuesque brunette towering over her tucked the business end of the .357 Python into the waistband of her designer jeans as she spoke, forcefully grasping the younger girl's wrist.

“All those looks and brains too, huh—besides the ones plastered all over your face.”

Samantha sneered as she hoisted Jennifer up off the pavement. The girl immediately began brushing frantically at her coat and face again.

She resembles a psychopath swatting at unseen insects, Sam mused. She turned away then, kicking the dead man once in the crotch for good measure.

"Now, let's move, we haven't got all night. I'll feel much better when we get as far away from here as possible.”




Before giving the shaken girl a ride to St. Mercy's Hospital, Samantha insisted she make two promises. The first, not to speak a word of what transpired in the alley tonight to anyone, and two; never to work the streets again.

“If I ever catch you out walking these streets—or any street—it'll be you they find next with bullet holes in your skull, you got it? Contact your folks, tell them where you are, then have them come pick you up.”

She placed her hand gently on the girl's quivering shoulders.

"How'd a pretty girl like you come to be in a fucked-up situation like this?

Jennifer responded as best she could through her wracking sobs. “I...I ran away. Please, don't hu-hurt me.”

Samantha saw the fear and pain in her dark, ebony eyes. She knew that look all too well herself.

“I ain't here to hurt you. What's your name anyway, hon?”

“It–it's ... Jennifer, my name's Jennifer. Bu–but my friends call me Jenny.”

Samantha pulled up in front of the hospital's emergency entrance just as the first golden slivers of sunshine began to burn through the polluted fog of a cold, waking city.

“Get out, Jennifer, we're here. Here's seven-hundred bucks. That should be enough to stitch up your head, get a cab, then catch a bus, if nobody will come and get you. At least you'll make it back to ... where was it you said you were from again?”

“I didn't. Toledo ... I'm from Toledo. And, I told you, my friends call me Jenny. Nobody but my folks call me Jennifer any more.”

“Get home to Toledo, Jennifer. And, I ain't your friend. You forget your promise to me; you'll find that out soon enough, you hear?”

Samantha sped off then, leaving the battered young girl on the sidewalk grasping for answers to questions that would never be forthcoming.




After a quick shower, Samantha collapsed onto the sofa.  Grabbing the remote, she switched on the television. The Channel 7 Eyewitness News sprang to life on the fifty-inch screen...

“... police identified the victim this morning as thirty-three-year-old Jimmy Palto, a sub-contractor for a local construction company. He was found with three gunshot wounds to the back of the head, apparently shot execution style. A motive has not yet been officially determined for the shooting. However, local authorities suspect robbery, or a possible drug deal gone bad, by gangs known to operate in the area. Police are investigating to round up any suspects. If you have any information concerning this crime, call Crime Stoppers at 1-888-662-7463. Again, that's 1-888-No Crime. Your identity will remain anonymous.”

Samantha realized it was blind luck she'd been at that particular corner last night, at precisely the right moment. With Jimmy now out of commission, it was time to find herself another unsuspecting confidant to gather much needed information from. Shooting wasn't the way the majority of her perps were taken out, but it was just as effective. Jennifer just happened to be the one Jimmy confronted before Sam could get to him. All that really mattered now was that Jimmy was out of the picture.

He wouldn't be raping or hurting any more young girls—ever again.


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Samantha arose from the couch, snatching the wig from the coffee table. She entered her bedroom, carefully placing it back onto the Styrofoam bust. Rubbing her own shaved head vigorously, Sam returned to the bathroom once more. She marveled in the vanity mirror at how much she actually looked like a man with the make-up, wig and provocative clothing removed. When a fake—but realistically effective— costumed mustache, duct taped breasts and men's clothing replaced them, the whole world knew Samantha Benton as Sam.

Sam Benton, mild-mannered software programmer by day, female vigilante by night.

Molly the Mangler, the media called her.

How funny.

"Samantha the Slayer's far more apropos," she snarled at her reflection.

Checking her supply of Rapex condoms, she settled in to make herself a light breakfast. Just four of them left. It had been a very busy week. She would have to make a trip downtown to the public library to place another order. Samantha never ordered them from the same computer or location twice, and certainly, not from home.

It was far too risky.

It was Tuesday, and Sam realized she had the whole day off. Whistling the tune “Just Whistle while you Work” from an old Disney classic, she gazed out of the bay window from her spacious kitchen. Grinning, her eyes gleamed; nearly glowing in a deep, vibrant, emerald green.

Samantha squinted up into an azure-blue, cloudless summer sky.

A harmonious blend of bird song, mingling with police sirens and car horns, wafted up to her, echoing from the busy, bustling streets below. The extemporaneous symphony drifted along the cobblestone streets, urged on by the sweltering summer breezes.

Life in the big city ...

“It's going to be a beautiful day,” she sighed.


Smokin' Samantha photo tumblr_m83t1zdAdH1r2ak0yo1_5001_zps6f01baeb.gif


Horror Story Writing Contest contest entry


First off, please allow me to humbly thank all of the loyal readers who appreciate the unique style of poetry & prose I present here on Fanstory. I truly love you all...

Now...picture this. A man comes into a hospital with his penis stuck in his zipper-- and no, this is not the beginning of an indecent joke. Evidently, it is so lodged in his zipper that not even he, with all of his masculine might, can arrest his appendage from its metal grasp.
The manly man needs a surgical team to extricate the beast from its cavity. The sight of this incident prompted a medical technician to come up with an invention to shield against rape. Sonettte Ehlers, hears in an echoic voice, the torment of a rape victim she had spoken with in the hospital as the victim cried, "Oh, if only I had teeth 'down there.'" Immediately, a light bulb goes off.
Hmmm, she surmises, "Teeth down there", similar to the teeth of a zipper? Viola, a medical device to prevent rape! She would even give it a name; Rapex...
Sonettte Ehlers begins to develop a product that will pain, but not permanently maim, a man's private parts if he were to do try the unthinkable --rape.

The Rapex device is to be inserted into a woman, similar to a tampon with an applicator. If a man tries to enter her, he impales himself on the barbs, needing to go to an emergency room immediately to have it removed! Of course, we all know how intense the blood flow is to a man's...nether region...during arousal. If the attacker fails to risk incrimination, he could eventually bleed to death.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.
It may not inflict severe enough harm if treated promptly. Yet, it should be harm enough to cause significant or lasting scars. Primarily, however, it's purpose is as an attack deterrent to permit a woman with time enough to hopefully get away.

Views on this device are varied and decidedly mixed. I hear they are on their way here, to the U.S., very soon. I'm interested to know...

What's your opinion?
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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