King of the World
Chapter 2
What have I done? That was my only thought as I woke up that morning. Last night had been both a blur and the most vivid experience of my life. I was at a bar, an old man had made everyone his sexual slave, and then I killed said man, do to his machinations. But I what I did after was excruciating. For some godforsaken reason, I had ordered and watched my dear Angela as she performed fellatio on her second man of that evening.
After that, everything was fuzzy. I remember wanting to leave, the naked waitress opening the padlock and then getting the hell out of Dodge. Angela drove me home as I reeled from guilt, sick to my stomach from the blood, and then we just went to bed at home right away. Well, she did. It took me awhile.
But as I awoke, I went over the specifics. I killed a man, my DNA and fingerprints are on a butcher knife in some small town near a dead body. If I was a real murderer I would go back there and try to clean-up the crime scene, but I know I’d fail, and the CSI guys would find me or something. I don’t have enough money to move to Paraguay, and I’m pretty sure that small-town restaurant didn’t have any cameras, not that I recall. Oh god, what if they had cameras? I have to think, but I can’t go crazy.
I called work, hoping to get the day off. No answer. Oh right, it’s five in the morning, and Saturday. Angela was still asleep, like a stone. I looked at her peacefully, knowing this may be the last time I ever watch her sleep. But wait, that old man said I was “King of the World.” Maybe I can go back and get one of those hypnotized waitresses to confess? That wouldn’t work, what with DNA and everything. But he also said that no one cares about what he does, but that wouldn’t apply after death, would it?
But if I’m King of the World, and no one cares what I do, then no one will arrest me. Would the police really go “Oh let’s ignore him for no reason?” I have no idea. I could build an army to stop them, but I doubt that’s what the old man had in mind. My mind continued to wander, but pretty soon it went away from the murder, and to sweet Angela. How had I controlled her? Am I King, or did that man have some hypnotic ability?
Well, I once hypnotism only allows you to do what you’re willing to do. All she did last night was take off her clothes and a little oral sex, something she’s done for me plenty of times. “Angie,” I said, “wake up.” I didn’t really care that it was 5:30 and she only had about five hours of sleep. She awoke with a jolt.
“Smile.” She gave a sickeningly wide smile. “Take off your top.” She nonchalantly took off her top. “Rub your breasts together.” She did just that. These weren’t really things she wouldn’t do in an uncontrolled state, outside of normal circumstances. I guess she would probably yell at me for waking her up, and expect more foreplay or at least show some more initiative, since she wasn’t some sort of S&M submissive chick or anything.
“What is your middle name?” “Marie.” “Have you ever had sex with a girl?” “Once, last night.” What? When did that old man get her to have sex with one of his women? “Okay, have you ever had anal sex?” “No.” “Would you have anal sex if I asked?” “Yes.” “Would you have anal sex if I asked two days ago?” She thought long and hard.
“No,” was her response. I guess the hypnotism could make her more liberal, if it was in her subconscious or something. I don’t know, I’m not an expert. I didn’t to expand my questioning to the non-sexual sector.
“Would you rob a bank if I asked?” “Yes.” “Would you kill the President if I asked?” “Yes.” “Would you jump on a flying comet if I asked?” “No.”
“No? Why not?” “I don’t believe there is any physical way to jump on a flying comet,” she said, jovially. I was starting to ease up too, and we do have a good sense of humor together. We actually had played this game before, but it was reversed and in a ‘I’d do anything for you, my love’ format.
But she wouldn’t, or shouldn’t. Angela came from an uptight family and was incredibly conservative sexually. She only had one boyfriend before me, and hadn’t lost her virginity until a couple years before I met her (to said boyfriend). She was saving herself for marriage in her teen years. I introduced her to oral sex, but that was as far as she’d ever been willing to go, and I wasn’t pushy nor had I really expanded much, sexually, myself.
I looked down at her, topless on the bed, smiling with a good attitude, even though she should be angry at me for waking her. Would no one ever be angry at me? I began to remove my clothes, with no discernible response from Angela. I slid into the bed. “Angie, turn around.” She did just that, facing away from me. We practiced birth control, exclusively on my end, but she did not reach into the drawer for a condom like usual. And she also preferred to face me.
I did not care. I was erect now, and I felt inside her. I was massaging around her clitoris with my fingers as she moaned in pleasure. My penis was alongside her backside, and was inching toward her rear entry. I hesitated, as this was my ‘first time,’ and started to slide in. “Ow!” she screamed.
Ah! I thought silently, I forgot to use lubrication. I quickly pulled out, and pulled her to her side. I looked at her lovingly as she smiled at me. I positioned myself upon her and began thrusting in and the way she and I were both accustomed. She was still not worried about the lack of birth control or whatever pain she felt from my brief anal sojourn. Plus she was a clean freak who was not worried about me being ‘dirty.’ I pumped to near-completion, and pulled out, spilling my seed onto her stomach, an old high school habit.
I got up, grabbed a towel, and cleaned both myself and Angela off. “Angie,” I asked, “why did you want to have sex with me?” I wasn’t pulling another test, I was seriously curious why she would at this hour after all she had been through.
“I didn’t,” was her response. I looked at her peculiarly, and responed “If you didn’t want to have sex with me, then why didn’t you stop me?” Her response: “I didn’t want to stop you.” She can be crazy sometimes with her circular logic, even under my apparent utter control. I sighed and looked out the window, not bothering to cover myself up for some reason.
“Since the police aren’t coming for me,” I said, not really noting that it was 6:30 and they probably haven’t even found the body yet, “then maybe I should test these newfound powers on other people.” Angela didn’t have the slightest clue what I was talking about, but I’m sure she didn’t really care and would let me sputter off nonsense, and whatever else, for as long as possible. I looked out the window at a school crossing zone (I really should cover-up), and saw a couple of high-school girls chatting it up. And my mind continued to wander.
One week later, in another part of the world:
It was a nice sunny day out when Frank Baines walked into his nondescript office in a nondescript building. He set his coffee down, and picked up his newspaper, getting ready for a nondescript day. A knock began at the door. “Come in,” Frank chimed.
“Sir,” noted the middle-aged woman, “Ralph Carmello is dead.”
Frank’s eyes widened. “What?!” he asked. She merely handed him a cut-out newspaper article. The newspaper noted that the body of Carmello, after he went missing twenty-five years earlier, was found murdered in a small-town dumpster fifteen miles outside of Albany, New York. “Why are we finding out about this now? Do the police have any leads?”
“Read on, the newspaper says the police have declined to investigate,” she simply replied, turning the page to the second section.
He did not read on. His eyes widened as big as they could get, and he flipped a console on his otherwise nondescript desk. “Alert all agents,” he commanded, “We’re going to Albany, New York. There’s a new King in town.”
He looked at his wall, at a varied collection of photos taken at treaty negotiations and world peace conferences. “I hope to god we get another Ralph Carmello,” he noted, wiping the smudge off a picture showing a dirty old man in the background behind Yassir Arafat and Bill Clinton.