Veiled Chameleons

Don’t make a sound or I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” he whispered.

Terror distorted Evelyn’s pale face accentuating her tiny crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and mouth into hideous craters sopping up the black mascara that ran down her painted cheeks.  His movements were so quick and powerful that before she was able to digest what was happening, he forced her back into her bedroom.

“Please, please don’t--”  Her muffled cries begged for mercy, but the more she pleaded the tighter his grip became around her throat.

Just before she lost consciousness she felt him release his grip.  Then suddenly, powerful hands shoved her back onto her bed.  Her whole body shook uncontrollably.  She prayed that this was some type of morbid, sadistic prank that her husband devised to torment her.  She prayed that her attacker’s violent eyes would expose the practical joke.

“C’mon Evelyn, just put the gun in your mouth and suck on it-- for old times sake.  Be a good girl and I promise I won’t hurt you.”

A sense of relief enveloped her as his huge hands covered hers, gently coaxing the barrel of the gun into her mouth.  It was a sick game but at least she wouldn’t be harmed.  Her eyes pleaded with him for commiseration.

“Good girl. Ooh yeah, that’s nice,”  he said in a calm, almost seductive voice.

Her eyes jolted wide-open flickering hysterically.  She thrashed about on her bed as she fought desperately to free herself from the crushing power of her assailant’s hand just before he forced her to squeeze the trigger.

********

The following day the telephone rang awaking Arthur Ferguson from a chemically induced sleep.  A night of drinking and wild sex prevented him from rising early.  He reached across the two curvaceous nude bodies lying next to him and picked up the phone.  The scent of stale sex penetrated his nostrils as he crawled from under his red satin sheets.

“Yeah?”  Ferguson mumbled, wiping the stain of sleep from the corner of his mouth.

“You up?”  questioned the voice on the other end.

“I am now.”

“Have you seen this morning’s Free Press?”

“No.  I haven’t even gotten outta bed yet.  What time is it anyway?”  Ferguson’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit room and converged on the alarm clock that sat atop his solid oak armoire.  It was a little past noon.  Savoring the vision of the two sleeping beauties locked in each other’s arms; he regretfully pulled himself out of bed.

“Let me take this in the other room.  I’ve got company.”

“What else is new?”

“Okay, shoot.  Did that bullshit make the papers already?”  Ferguson asked, his manhood slapping the nappy hairs on his black thighs as he meandered butt-naked into the living room.

“In bold print - front page.  Did you expect anything different?”

“Well, I issued a statement to the press last night and I told Bobby not to make any comments.”

“Yeah, I read your interview, Mr. Ferguson - Esquire.”  The voice spewed a hint of sarcasm. 

“And the medical examiner already confirmed her death was a suicide.  So we should be home free.  Case closed,”  Ferguson zealously replied.

“Maybe you’re right but I don’t think so.  There’s gonna be some questions and when Rashim gets back from Saudi, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

“And your point is?”

“I’ll handle things from here, just like I’ve always done - and from now on Ferguson, keep your boy Pitts in check.”