He Said, She Says

by C.M. Marcum

He said: I promised myself that I was going to be a good boy. But then… I see her. She's sitting on the side of the trail, rubbing her ankle and wearing those shortie-shorts—get any shorter and I'd have to call them little britches a bikini thong. Her long black hair, captured in one of those scrunchy things, falls over her left shoulder and dangles in a thick rope down to her heaving chest. Not too much meat in the boob department, but all that frantic breathing is making two perfect, little pop-up teepees on her shirt. Up, down, up down. Her face is red and sweaty, but her eyes light up when she sees the brown uniform and the emblem on my hat: Park Ranger. I ride in, on my rusty steed, a souped-up version of an electric golf cart.

Dark skinned girl—more than just a suntan. Italian, maybe. Not the sort of girl that I would pick out of a crowd, but… hey, a man takes what a man can get. If you say different, then you're lying to me—or to yourself. Either way, it doesn't matter, it's still a lie.

“Do you need some help, Miss?” I ask and take my foot off the accelerator.

“Duh! Are you stupid or something?” she says real smarmy-like, and I know, right away, that I'm dealing with a first class bitch. Pretty, but still a real tight ass, city slicker.

I walk across the shallow blacktop, put my hands under her damp armpits and say, “Let me take you back to the station. We can patch you up there, or we can call an ambulance if you need one.”

After I heave her up, she leans against me, hard. Her boobs flop up and down on my forearm, and her hips bump into mine with a suggestive rhythm. I support ninety percent of her weight, and I guess it's a good thing that I didn't find her up on one of them rocky ledges. Then I would've had to lug her big ass down the slope, all by myself, and she twern't one of the tiny-boned girls, either. A hundred and fifty pounds of female muscle or my name ain't Jack Oberman.

When I put her in the cart, she makes no effort to lift herself, and I have to put my hands under her legs to boost her up. Not that I'm complaining; she's got nice, tight hams, and I start wondering: What else has she got that's nice and tight?

I hopped in, and off we go—south toward Old Forest Road .

“Why are we going this way?” she asks. “The Ranger Station is north.”

“I know a short cut,” I say and smile at her.

Her shorts are wedged between her thighs and the cotton shirt clings to her chest, which don't leave much room for guessing . I can see the dark areola on each tit and the way her stomach dips between those two pointy hip bones is enough to make me forget about any silly promises.

By the time we pull off the main trail and onto the logging road, she knows something is up, and that greasy pie hole of hers start flapping. Women are always ragging-on about something, might as well give them something to rag about. Am I right or am I right?

I slap her a few times—just to let her know whose boss. I don't manage to get the vehicle as far down the road as I want, but it's time to ditch the cart, anyway. There's no way I can control her and drive at the same time. Funny thing—she kicks me pretty good for a gimpy gal and she has the sharpest nails. Rail spikes they are.

After that—after she rakes me a couple of times—things get hot. I lose all control and strangle her before I even get my rocks off—in a proper way, I mean. I ain't no necrophiliac or nothing like that.

After it's over, I decide that it was a damn good fight, satisfying in its own way. Not straight-up sex, but still good enough to ease a man's tensions…

***

She says: Of course, I know about the Red Trail Killer, but I'm also confident in my ability to take care of myself. I've taken several courses in self-defense: kickboxing, Taekwondo, and pankration. If all these fail, I will resort to my favorite form of fighting, the ancient and totally undisciplined blitz attack called the Viking Berserker. I relish the rare opportunity to practice these skills without worrying about injuring a partner. Beside, what are the odds of bumping into to the RT Killer and how big could he be? Unless he's the size of sumo wrestler and can move as fast as a jaguar, I'm good to go.

I run the fifteen mile hiking trail with my feet barely touching the ground—a good run is like that. I imagine that my body is full of air. This part of the trail is pretty flat, and easy enough to allow me to concentrate on my surroundings. I am acutely attuned to the sounds that float through the air. A breeze rustles the leaves in the trees. Somewhere, far away, a crow proclaims his love for any potential mate that finds him attractive. Squirrels scamper over bark and chatter rudely at me. The sky is blue sky, the shade trees thick, there's a fine mist in the air and the usual horde of tourists have found safer tromping ground. I like it here. It's quite charming and rustic, despite the recent alerts on the local radio stations—all the stations: country, rock and gospel channels carry the sad reports of six missing girls, one local woman and five vacationers.

I hear the fan-like whir of an electric cart a long time before I see it, and the sudden noise causes me to trip—one foot bending, until my toes fold back and the top of my tennis shoe skids over the trail.

As pain goes, it's not too bad; I've had worse. I sit down on a chair size boulder—a rock that tumbled from the mountain top, perhaps, thousands of years ago—as if this loose bit of rubble knew that I would need a prop someday.

Listening to the tiny motor inch closer toward me, I hope that I will meet the right man, a man who will give meaning to my life. As I wait, the breeze dies, the limbs on the trees bow, and even the river folds back to midstream. The world slows, waiting for the next bit of drama to unfold. Nothing can stop the universe from spinning, but there are breathless moments for each of us: that unexplained stillness before a collision, that immeasurable anxiety before a meeting, that critical pause as the axle of life changes gears, shuttling us off in a new and unexpected direction.

Eventually, the cart arrives, and I'm disappointed with the view. A grungy fellow in a light brown Ranger suit sticks his head out of an electric cart—as if that was necessary—and ogles me. When our eyes meet, I know that he's the one. I shiver, anticipating what will come next. I bend over and rub my ankle to demonstrate my predicament.

“Well, what have we here?” he asks. “A little lady in need of some help?”

“Yes sir,” I say. “I'm so stupid. I think I broke my ankle, and I just realized that I don't have my cell phone with me.”

“I bet you didn't stop at the Ranger Station and file a hiking plan either, did you?” he asks, and there's something in his voice that stirs a squishy feeling in my gut. My answer, a single word—yes or no—will be a pivotal to what happens next.

“No,” I admit. The man pauses in his seat; I can see his mind working, computing the risks against the potential rewards.

He pulls his considerable bulk out of the cart, takes the path in two broad strides—moving faster and stronger than I would have anticipated. He's a predator; I can see it in his eyes. He tucks his hands under my armpits. Swathes of curly hair, lighten by hours and hours in the sun, swell under the band of his Smoky-Bear hat. Coarse, black hair runs down the back of his neck and disappears under a grimy shirt. Yellow mustard stains dot the button seam of his uniform. He smells of dust and dog, minute traces of blood. His hands waft the faintest tinge of aftershave, Old Brute— what a prophetic scent for him. His palms rub against my breasts, as he tugs me toward the cart. The electric motor whirs in idle—a humming witness to my humiliation. He's so anxious to get me into the cart that my feet barely touch the ground; I glide through the air, almost as if I am still jogging down the trail.

As he dumps me in the cart, his callus fingers sweep over my legs and under my shorts to explore the swell of each butt cheek. His movements are casual, almost accidental—like an experienced poker player, he must not show his hand too soon. We are still on the main trail and anyone might happen by. His eyes flutter with pleasure, and, for a moment, I think: I'll just scratch his eyeballs out, right here and now, and save myself some trouble. But I have to be sure. Perhaps, he's just a dirty old man, taking a rare opportunity to frisk a pretty girl. Sick, disgusting, repulsive, disreputable—yes. But not totally evil.

He makes no effort to turn the vehicle around. The miniature ride makes a deeper sound under our combined weight—more like whoorm, whoorm than whir, whir. I look at him with a question in my eyes.

“I know a short cut,” he says.

When he makes the sharp left onto the logging road, the wheels on the cart sink into the deep ruts cut by the rainy season, and the rear-end slams against the paved road. Both our butts sail a foot into the air and then down again with the sharp spanking sound of flesh against molded plastic. I opened my mouth to protest, and that's when his right arm leaves the wheel. He bats me down the middle of my face with his forearm and fist—a meaty, right hand salute that makes my ears ring. I feel and hear the bones in my nose crack.

A clear declaration of war!

We fight—and this is never my favorite part. I detest the physical part, the close proximity of my body against his, the strange, awkward motions of the battle, and the pungent order of sweat. He enjoys every wrestling maneuver that I make. There's this idiotic expression of pleasure on his face: the face of a man casting a reel into deep water, the face of a man revving the engine on a new Ferrari, the face of a man satisfying a perverted need, however high the cost. I can gain no advantage inside the vehicle; it's all about weight and leverage now.

We fall. And, unfortunately, I find myself on the bottom of the pile. His hands go around my throat, squeezing, pressing down. He throws his whole body into the effort. His penis rubs against my legs—one, two, three times. His face contorts into a gruesome mask and his body shutters. Now, there's a damp spot on my shorts and I want to vomit. Instead, I let my body go limp, but I leave my eyelids partially open and staring straight ahead. The hardest part is slowing my breath, until my lungs are barely moving. I want him to think that I am dead; I want to change the tactics of the game.

All around the woods are silent, as if every living creature senses the evil that has altered this bucolic landscape. He studies my face for a long time, a terribly long time. I am almost ready to stop pretending, when he rises and walks away. He leans against the roll-bar of his mired go-cart and wipes his forehead against his arm, the gesture of a man who has put in a hard day's work. Eventually, he turns his back on me, and I hear the teeth on his zipper separate, a short pause, and then the spurt of pee on the forest floor.

I ease up. Dead leaves float off me, silently raining back down to the ground. He never notices. He's finished with me, and men seldom notice anything when they are peeing, especially the post-ejaculation pee.

My feet fly across the ground, and I spring into the air, Berserker style. I land so hard against his back that his head bounces off the metal roll-bar. There's a dull thawap of meat splitting on the pole and then a sharp bing of bone ringing against the steel. The bing produces an echo, giving it the sound of an antique cash register. Oh, what a glorious and merry tune for any merchant of vengeance. Are you satisfied with your purchase? Care for a little more?

I mock the noise, “Bing-a-ling. Bing-a-ling.”

Inspired, I grab a handful of matted hair, pull back, and slam his head against the bar again, trying to recapture that ominous music. Blood and sweat shoot forward like mist captured in a car's headlights, and I can't quite hit that same note again. Perhaps, the bones in his little head are too damaged to get the right reverberations. Pity.

My fingernails dig into his neck, making eight perfect holes, as my thumbs brace against the base of his skull. His neck is soft and fat, and oh so vulnerable. I have chosen his weakest spot; I recognized his flaw the minute I saw that double chin.

He clutches at my hands, but I dig in deeper, until my fingers are totally imbedded. Then I pull away quickly—a classic thrust and retreat maneuver. There's no reason for me to risk future injury; I've bested him.

He stays on his feet a surprisingly long time, but he's no threat to anyone, not any more. Blood spurts with every beat of his heart. For a while, he looks like a wayward garden sprinkler, spinning erratically, until the pressure begins to ebb. One, two, three. He crumbles. He makes a nice pile of brown and red poop on the forest floor, at least, I like to think of him that way.

I trot back to the hiking trail, and I can almost hear the six missing girls stand up from their mossy graves and clap. But that's just a ridiculous idea, I tell myself. It's probably just a flock of birds that I can not see. Perhaps, the strange noise is just some uppity mocking birds arguing with a brown thrasher over territory.

I never look back at him, but I do look at my nails. The red fingernail paint is flaking up on my right hand. Underneath the acrylic lacquer, the gun-metal grey of my nails glitters in the afternoon sun.

“Shit,” I say.

Now, I know what you're thinking—Super Girl. Well, not exactly. I don't have super powers, but I am immortal, and being immortal I thought I would put it to some good use. An eternity is a long time to live without any purpose, and I've always enjoyed tidying up. Of course, I only do it part-time. The end results of my humanitarian work are immensely satisfying, but the actual deed is…repulsive.

I wish that I could find those missing girls. Gather up the pieces and take them back home to their mothers, but that is not my talent. My talent is surviving every assault, every disease, every injury.

How old am I? Well, you should never ask a lady that question, but let's put it this way: Jack the Ripper did not end his run in London by suddenly moving to New York, Hitler did not die of a gun shot wound to the head, and the Zodiac Killer did not die in a car accident.

here are a thousand more maniacs that I could name; you would not recognize their names. But that's good, isn't it? It means: I got to them before they became famous.