E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
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Perhaps one of the best Tasteless Tuesdays in a long time (that doesn't deal with crap or barf). Originally posted to alt.tasteless by "Jeff" and culled by Sgt Zeno. Long, terrific, read....
credit given to original author if known
She Wore Silk Stalkings or Who Let the Nuts Out
by Jeff J.
Dear Howling Chimps, Hyenas and Slavering Masses:
When I returned to this august forum, I promised I'd share the whole story of my ordeal at the hands of the hosebeast. So, with no further ado or comment, here it is. Enjoy my misery, you pack of braying beasts.
The last I had seen of my personal tormentor, the psycho-hosebeast from Hell, she was being escorted out of the courtroom for an extended stay at the State Forensic Center. At the time, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and worked toward getting life back to normal as quickly as possible.
The calm of my effort was shattered in a brief instant about three months later. It started with a call from the Artist, the young art student I was fortunate enough to be poking at the time. Her brand new car had been vandalized with the ever-inspirational words "DIE BITCH" spray-painted across the sides and hood of her SUV. Not more than two hours later, I heard the same tale of woe from my daughter and then, later in the day, again from my step-daughter. Their cars had been attacked similarly. During the day, I did some nosing around with the detectives who had worked with me during my earlier travails, and he found out that the psycho-hosebeast had indeed been released from the Forensic Center by the psychiatric team there - there was nothing wrong with her in their esteemed professional opinion.
Yeah, and I'm a fucking saint who should be elected Pope of the mother-fuckin'Katlick Church.
All three girls called their respective insurance agents and life was again returning to some sense of normalcy, when three days later, I got a desperate call from the Artist. Someone had broken into her rental house and trashed the interior and contents. Seriously trashed. This time her roommates were impacted, and by now I was accruing quite a cadre of young women who weren't real happy about what my dick had gotten us all into, especially since the impact was falling on their shoulders, not mine.
I called the police again, but without any concrete evidence to go on, their hands were tied. The prosecuting attorney was loath to pursue my harasser without any tangible evidence that she had reverted back to her former MO. Trying to explain that to these five young women was another story altogether. To say that they were spectacularly unhappy with me is a wee bit of an understatement.
Two days after the break-in at the Artists, my daughter's dorm room was broken into and trashed. Her laptop was stolen and most of her and her roommate's clothing was trashed with spray paint. She was quite shaken by this and she fled back to the retreat of her mother's house to escape for a while. But now her mother and her roommate were on my case too. The psycho-hosebeast was efficiently making my life a waking nightmare without coming near me. And it's a good thing that she wasn't coming near me because my paranoia was ratcheted up a good ten notches and I was carrying my .45 at all times. Believe me, I was ready to use it at the least provocation from her. But, ss much as I hated to admit it, she was having her way with me and there didn't seem to be much I could do about it.
Thanks to the cobwebs of memory and burned brain cells, the timeline gets a little hazy here, but it wasn't more than a couple of weeks later that I had to leave town on business. I was gone for 4-5 days. On my return to town, the limo service dropped me at my house in the wee hours of a Friday morning to find my house taped off with yellow crime scene tape and not a single pane of glass left intact on the main floor. My car, which had been sitting in the garage, was similarly trashed - windows smashed with a hammer, body panels dented, tyres flattened. Inside the house, every piece of furniture I owned was mashed/ripped; all my clothes were slashed and spray-painted; my computer/stereo/TV's telephones were smashed - you get the picture. I called the polizei and found out that the damage had been reported by my neighbors two days prior, but that no one had seen anything - apparently it was done during the day, when all my neighbors were at work. Later in the day, during business hours, I talked to the detective again and impressed upon him the desperation of the situation. He talked to the prosecutors again, but still no soap. Circumstantial - no proof it was her.
I took a suite at an extended stay hotel, and got about the business of re-building my life, again. My insurance agent was decent about it, but I could tell he was getting tired of filing my claims, and that my welcome with the carriers was wearing quite thin. But, I got a new car and money for new clothes in fairly short order.
In a way I was glad that the bitch was at least focusing her attention on me again, and not the people around me who mattered to me. But that little solace didn't last long. Maybe two weeks later, I got a desperate call from one of the Artists' roommates. The Artist had been assaulted outside their house by an assailant who cracked her over the head with a blunt object from behind. Steeling myself, I hurried to the hospital where she'd been taken. She'd had the living shit kicked out of her. Her face looked like 10 lbs. of raw hamburger and she had aches and pains in places that she didn't know she had places. She was shaken to her very emotional core, and I could tell by the hunted look in her blackened eyes that she couldn't take any more of this, or me.
I realized that I had to do something. The attacks were escalating in severity, and had now become attacks on person, not just property. I called both kids and told them to not go anywhere unescorted, and preferably to hang with someone who was licensed to carry a sidearm. I made the offer to arm them, but both declined.
I explained to them that my plan was to relocate, letting the crazy bitch know I was leaving, in an effort to keep them safe from my tormentor. And that's how I started my life on the lam. On my way out of town, I called the psycho-hosebeasts' brother and told him that I was leaving the state, and asked him to communicate that to his darling sister. She had won and I was slinking out of Dodge, tail between my legs, defeated by her multi-pronged attack.
I was self-employed as a consultant, and had a client base across the whole country. Thankfully, because of that, I was able to continue my income stream largely unhampered by all of this. But I paid the price in having to live a life below the radar for the most part. A deliberate stranger using assumed names and feigned identities locally, I had little personal life and except for phone calls and the occasional surprise visits back home, I had to leave those who mattered most to me alone.
Over a 20 month period, I lived in four states, moving from each when the psycho-hosebeast caught up with me. There were lots of little scrapes and threats, but I'll skip those details - it was just more of the same shit. In spite of her following me around to these other states, she never made a direct physical threat to my person. Suffice it to say that as well as being crazy, the hosebeast was smart and resourceful. She was a persistent and effective PI who was adept at chasing down my business name and my SSN. Her obsession had rendered unfit for work, and thanks to tireless work by her attorney, she had gotten approved for some type of disability. So, the government was paying her to sit home with nothing else to do but obsess about me and my whereabouts. Every time she found me, she begged, borrowed or stole the money to come and "visit". It really wasn't much of a life.
The story ends in a rural area where I had made my final retreat. I thought it was the ideal location - off the beaten path, yet a local airport had daily commuter flights to a major airport, where I could connect to all of the destinations I needed to get to for business. I'd only been there for about three, maybe four months, when I got a message on my answering machine that sent chills down my spine. I'd been out of town and hadn't checked my home messages during a hectic day of travel. I got home late at night to find a message waiting for me. It was you-know-who, and she was talking really crazy, even for her. She left a rambling diatribe that was vaguely threatening and that used up the full ten minutes of memory in my answering machine before getting cut off.
Shit, she knew where I was. I knew I was going to have to move again.
The next morning, as I was contemplating my next move, I called the local police chief and told him my long sad tale of woe. I wanted to prepare him and his department, should I need to call upon them for support. In retrospect, I'm very glad that I did this, because I'm not sure they would have been as responsive later on as they were, had I not taken them into my confidence.
During the next couple of weeks, I got a couple more threatening messages on my answering machine and, more disturbingly, an unsigned card through the mail that said simply "I'll see you soon." That meant that she knew my address, not just my phone number. I didn't go anywhere, even the bathroom, without my gun and I can honestly say that I had reached a point where life just wasn't any fun at all. My life was consumed by this woman and her fixation on me. The energy that looking over your shoulder 24/7 takes is enormously sapping.
Then, within a week, on a grey and dreary day, I was working at home when I got The Call.
It was the hosebeast. Mind you, I hadn't spoken directly with her during most of this time. She avoided making personal contact with me, preferring to make her presence felt, but not seen. It was probably a fuckup on her part that she'd caught me at home. During our very brief exchange she let it slip that she was in the local area and that she was headed my way - and she sounded pissed. She also sounded deluded, confused, and disoriented, but mostly she sounded pissed.
I immediately called my contact at the local police, and he had a couple of local boys and county sheriffs out to my house, which was on a rural stretch of road about five miles out of town, in short order. They parked their cars where my driveway joined the common driveway that was shared by my house and two neighboring houses. We didn't have to wait long before the hosebeast approached in her beat-up old car. She stopped at the end of the common drive when she saw the cops. She sat in the car for a minute or two, then climbed out and started walking toward us, ranting incoherently and loudly all the while. Physically, she was a wreck - she'd gained a lot of weight, her hair was tangled and unkempt, her clothing rumpled and ill-fitting and she wasn't wearing any shoes in spite of the cool temps where we were and the sharp, pointy gravel underfoot.
More importantly, however, she was carrying a pistol slackly in one hand. It dangled loosely at her side as she walked toward us. She carried it casually, as though it was a just another personal item like a purse, a pair of sunglasses, or a blow-dryer. It almost seemed like an afterthought that she'd picked it up. The Chief took the lead in talking to her and he warned her to drop her weapon - at least fifty times, or so it seemed. She seemed minimally aware of him, or us, and kept up her angry and rambling hate speech all the while. At his behest, she did stop walking toward us, but she wouldn't let loose of the gun. She stood in the grass and weeds by the side of the drive yelling loudly about what a shit I was and how I'd fucked up her life.
You know, I couldn't help thinking about how that was really a two-way street, but this didn't seem like the time for a debate on the matter, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Besides, the cops had confiscated my gun promptly when they arrived, so I really wasn't in a position to debate the issue on an equal footing with her at the moment.
We all stood in this rather tense standoff for what seemed like an eternity, although it was probably less than a few minutes. There we were - me and a semi-circle of LEO types facing her as though she was a performer on a stage. She stood, no more than twenty feet from the group of us and she went on with her blather. The cops, guns drawn and aimed, went on with their yelling to get her to disarm.
What broke the stalemate was the Chief taking a couple of steps in her direction and extending his hand toward her. Apparently, that little gesture galvanized her unstable mind into action. She deliberately raised her sidearm up to her head, secured a two-handed grip on it, placed it into her mouth, pursed her lips around the cold steel barrel (thankfully shutting her up at last). She paused for just the briefest of moments with the gun in her mouth, then in the same deliberate manner, she pulled the trigger. I recall seeing that she closed her eyes, clenched her jaw and winced in anticipation of the shock and pain as she moved the trigger.
You hear some people say that people who are going to kill themselves hit a moment of supreme inner peace - bullshit. She looked anything but calm in her final moments. the last look in her eyes was that of a scared deer in the headlights of an onrushing semi.
Being outside, the sound of the gun firing wasn't much, just a loud pop that echoed off the trees. The loud retort of the gun announced my freedom from the torturous Hell I'd lived in for all those months and also it announced the end of her days.
I'll never forget the sight of the back of her head exploding, scattering her brain tissue and fragments of her skull over the clover and weeds beind her. It was funny - time seemed to both stretch out and compress simultaneously. It was over in an instant, and yet it seemed as though the spray of blood bone and brain moved in super slo-mo in my mind's eye - kind of like watching the Zapruder film frame by frame. It was a red geyser of life force erupting, spurting way from her head, radiating in a neat cone behind her. Her head, arms and legs jerked spastically and disjointedly in reaction to the shot - partly physics and partly her nervous system letting go. Her lifeless body collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut - so much dead meat at that point. And then it was over. I heard the muffled thump as her body hit the ground, then, as the sound of the gunshot faded away, for the briefest of moments it was quieter than the moon. Then there was a sudden bustle as the cops ran to her dead body, guns still drawn, uttering their expressions of shock and dismay.
I was numb. I'd seen people die before, but the circumstances were never like this. My mind was spinning with emotion, and I felt strangely disconnected from the impact of what I'd just witnessed. Typical psychological shock - I'd seen it many times before back in my days working in the mental health world.
For the next couple of hours, I walked around, watched and talked with the cops and the meat wagon attendants, but I don't remember too much about it. The memories I do have are fragmentary and disconnected - I remember seeing flies landing on the bloodstain she left behind and thinking that they were there to fatten themselves for their next breeding cycle on her spent proteins. I remember thinking how small she looked lying there and wondering how someone so small could have had such a big impact on my life. I remember how her lifeless arm flopped off to the side as they put her into the body bag, like it was just a piece of meat at a butcher shop. I remember thinking that this was someone I'd had sex with, and that my loaded cock had been in her mouth, just like the barrel of her loaded gun. I remember one of the younger cops being very distraught and visibly rattled by the event, and I remember thinking that he was probably not a good fit for the LEO job. I remember being amazed at the little twitches her body made in the moments after she died as her nervous system let go.
Then everyone was gone - there was only a bloodstain and a mist of tissue left on the plants and ground. By the next morning, even that was mostly gone thanks to the industrious forces of nature, the animals and insects that don't let anything go to waste. The psycho-hosebeast was gone and I was free.
Well, sort of free, if you know what I mean.